


Defence Professor Wohl - Extras, outakes, oneshots

by DarthKrande, NeverBeyondRedemption



Series: Defence Professor Wohl [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, Halloween, One Shot, Outtakes, Sequel, The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 17:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18298733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKrande/pseuds/DarthKrande, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverBeyondRedemption/pseuds/NeverBeyondRedemption
Summary: Scenes that, for one reason or another, wouldn't fit into the fanfic about Professor Wohl (sometimes known as Gellert Grindelwald) but were too precious for us to leave behind.





	1. Grindelwald's first Defence lesson

Gellert knew that it was important to make a good first impression, whether one was introducing oneself to potential new followers, threatening enemies to your cause or teaching a classroom of children for the first time. He suspected if this school was anything like Durmstrang (even his followers had been far too feared for idle rumours) then reviews of his first lessons would have been heard by every student in the school.

He’d been directed by a small, perhaps half-goblin teacher to the library after lunch, where he’d met the no-nonsense librarian. She’d scowled at him even as she directed him to the books for the last year's Defence Against The Dark Arts lessons. He’d flicked through them quickly, noting that his second year class were unlikely to have actually done much spell work. Practicals were good, he’d enjoyed those when he was at school. It wasn’t like there was much actually realistic in their current set books, so he’d probably have to teach with no class book at all.So he’d do a practical lesson, maybe disarming or shielding. Those were two pretty good fundamentals to start with.

With his lesson plan decided, he retraced his steps until he reached the corridor that he knew led to his own classroom. The students were already waiting, nervously chattering as they arranged the stack of Lockhart books on their desks.

He paused to still the nerves that churned in his belly. He was a dark wizard that had murdered more times than he could count and raced the true remorse that healed him. He had conquered countries and brought down governments, he could face a bunch of kids.

Dramatics would be a good way to get their attention, and it wouldn’t give him the chance to back out once he’d entered.

He slammed the door behind himself, making everyone jump and a couple of students made surprised exclamations that were hurriedly stifled. He strode down the central aisle, fixing each student with a stare and using a light brush of legilimency to figure out what they thought of him.

He was intimidating which was good, but now he needed something that would make them respect him. Dramatics seemed to be serving him well after the image Dumbledore had already painted of him – Abernathy Wohl though? Of all the names? – but it needed to be something more than smoke and mirrors, tricky enough to impress the brightest students but also make a point.

His eyes fell on the piles of garishly coloured books on each desk. Brilliant.

He flicked his wand, activating a flaming glamour as he banished the books, rematerialising them in their bags. It was difficult magic, especially because he couldn’t mix up which book belonged to which student and it left him staggering for the support of the table. At least the students were all too distracted by the ‘burning books’ to notice his momentary weakness.

‘You cannot learn to defend yourself from a book.’ He intoned, drawing their attention back to him as he let the glamoured flames fade. ‘Take out your wands.’ He instructed, then froze in dismay as without fail, every student reached for their bags to pull out their weapon. How had none of them realised where they were meant to be kept, did none of them wonder how adults drew their wands so fast? Or had it never occurred to any of them that it might be useful to have their most versatile tool closer to hand?

What kind of operation was Albus running here where children hadn’t even learned to draw their wands by their second year. Surely he would have been better off returning to teach the position himself rather than allowing them to miss such basics. Could it be possible the headmaster hadn’t even realised how far behind his students were?

‘Dead.’ He said slowly and the classroom froze. Truthfully, they would be if they graduated school and nobody taught them this vital piece of information. All plans for disarming left his mind.

Memories twinged as he remembered Vinda teaching this exact lesson to a group of his follower’s children before they left for their first school term. He’d found it was important to have somewhere for when he sent parents on missions, or they were less inclined to carry out a task during daylight. Unknowingly, he recited her exact lesson as he wandered among memories of teaching Credence the exact move that he would teach the Hogwarts students today.

The response was better the second time, but his attention was drawn to a bushy haired girl in the front row. She had a very organised mind, packed with knowledge of spells far beyond her year group and she would be an accomplished occlumens given the chance to learn. She was a muggleborn, which meant she didn’t even have a previous example to follow, and finally, her name was Hermione Granger. He withdrew from her mind with the information he needed and he pulled her up to the front of the class to demonstrate.

Then he drew again off his Durmstrang duelling lessons, knowing that it would be easier to pick out the mistakes if they were all in line. By the end of the hour, his continued legilimency had revealed that his first lesson had been a resounding success. He considered not giving them a homework but decided that would make him seem like a lax teacher. Instead, he set them a bit of practice and self-guided research.

By the end of the first day, his nerves had begun to settle and he headed back to the library to decide what to do with his next classes tomorrow. He needed to make the most of his freedom and ensuring that the next generation were equipped to protect themselves as best he could seemed like the beginning of an atonement for his crimes. That, and making sure they were less vulnerable to being influenced by the next dark wizard to haunt the country.

Of course, to do that he would have to promote some form of tolerance and unity, which he still needed to finalise within himself. That muggleborn in his first class was a shock enough, she easily bested the purebloods of her age. She would go far, furthermore he’d recognised the Potter boy of the prophesy as her friend. There couldn’t be a seer alive who hadn’t seen that particular prophesy at least once, not to mention he was so tangled up with the traces of some strange dark magic that it was impossible not to recognise him as a victim of an attack by a powerful dark wizard.


	2. A pure family

 Outtake – A pure family

(Between Chapters 13 and 14)

 

“Mr Malfoy, if you would please?”

The blond boy dropped his bag next to  Miss Parkinson's, and with the self-assurance of a twelve-year-old marched to the corner of the teachers' table.

“How were your holidays, Mr Malfoy?”

“I duelled against Father twice!” Draco happily exclaimed. “And both times I bested him!”

“So he refused to let you a third time.”

“How do you know about that, professor?”

“You only duelled twice.”

The young pureblood proudly nodded. “Father says he's very proud you're teaching me. The only good idea of the headmaster, that's verbatim what he said.”

“Oh, the headmaster is a brilliant wizard, Mr Malfoy, I knew him before  your father was born. He just compensates his brilliance, overcompensates, if you've noticed.”

The young Malfoy grinned victoriously; his (father's) views were eventually agreed with. 'Wohl' smiled smugly, too, because he was aware that through his pendant Dumbledore couldn't help but overhear the entire conversation. His employee (former friend) (captive) (trophy) (rescue) (partner) was talking with a student in private, after all, although they were standing in the Great Hall, waiting for the others to arrive for lunch.

“Anyway, Albus is not the only one with strange faults,” Grindelwald stated. “Here, I found this in the school archives. What do you see?”

The young Malfoy was given a photograph which he took in both hands, and immediately noticed that it had been taken from the exact same spot where they were now standing. “That’s mom here,” he pointed at a very young witch. “And this must be Aunt Bellatrix. Or maybe this one, it's hard to tell, she and Andromeda looked very much alike. And this is Father here!”

“What difference do you see?”

“You mean, between this and now?”

“Yes. It shocked me when I found that picture...”

In fact, it was the date that had shocked him. Now the Great Hall was only halfway filled with students, in 1974 it was almost at its full capacity. Until finding this photograph, Grindelwald had been blaming himself for the horrifying reduction of the numbers of wizarding people, but apparently at least Britain had recovered from the war in less than thirty years. Life had been back to normal, or at least close to it, when the picture had been taken.

He wished he could get the statistics of attending students for Durmstrang, too, or at least an approximation.

“Well, there are more Slytherins here than we are now,” Draco Malfoy said. “It must be quality against quantity, right?”

“That’s possible. What happened between then and now?”

“A lot of mudbloods and blood traitors were killed!” the young wizard cheered.

“From your house? I thought Slytherin doesn't take just anyone.”

“No...” Malfoy replied, understanding the contradiction now. “Well, Andromeda is a blood traitor. She married a mudblood!”

“And bore a spectacularly talented witch, if I heard it right. What happened to your aunt?”

“She is not my aunt, she is no longer family!” Draco declared.

“No, I mean this one, who's holding that knife right now.”

“Oh, Aunt Bellatrix. She's in Azkaban,” the boy replied, much more reserved. “She’s crazy. When the Dark Lord fell, our family claimed to have been misled and got away with everything. But then she took three other death eaters and tortured two aurors insane, only for the glory of it.”

Gellert looked around, because he had a feeling Albus was now watching them from somewhere close. Maybe the headmaster was only disillusioned and not moving, or he was utilizing the school wards to get a better look at the two of them from afar. But no, Albus wouldn't forego a chance to use Legilimency in a situation like this, and no school ward would channel that. He had to be close.

“So you and your father are of the opinion that sticking to fallen views isn’t worth a life sentence in Azkaban.”

“Pureblood supremacy isn't a fallen view!”

Oh, he remembered, a few decades prior it was 'wizarding supremacy'.

“But it isn't worth a life sentence. Not when it only leads to further losses.” For a moment, he darkened half of the photograph, so that it was showing the Slytherin table with its current numbers. The people in the picture were looking around confused before he ended the slight modification charm. “Do you want to keep that photo? Your mother looks dashing here.”

“Thank you, Professor Wohl.”

 

.

 

“Thank you, Professor Wohl,” Albus echoed a minute later, patting the newer old teacher's shoulder. “How much of that was improvised?”

“The young Mr Malfoy has yet to learn not to be predictable,” the Defence professor declared. “But my aim wasn't a lecture.”

He steadied himself and looked Dumbledore in the eyes, allowing him to enter his mind with only minimal, instinctive resistance. He could tell Albus was thoroughly going through his thoughts, marvelling at the plan that's first step was sending Narcissa Black the photo in which all three sisters are visible.

“You are irreparable,” Dumbledore finally stated, retreating from his captive's mind with a relieved smile. “Old meddler.”

The Defence teacher replied, ignoring the sudden coughing of both Aurora Sinistra and Filius Flitwick in the background, “I thought you had faith in my redemption.”

 


	3. Contrasts and a small mistake

(Between chapters 14 and 15)

 

It was a wonderful morning in mid-January. The rising sun's first rays shimmered on the snow and on the ice around the edges of the lake. The water rippled in the middle where it hadn't frozen over.

The castle had been quiet when Grindelwald woke, but by now several students were awake. Some might even beat him to the breakfast tables, which was fine, it wasn't a competition, and... it wasn't like he deserved an early breakfast. Or any sort of breakfast at all.

He had dreamt about people he had let down, about people whose deaths he had once considered acceptable losses. He hadn't really minded, back then, but he bitterly regretted that attitude now. Worst of all was how they now ignored him. There had been no ghost to keep him company in Nurmengard and even that chance meeting with Henry and his muggle partner at Halloween only served as a reminder of how utterly alone he was.

Unforgiven.

Still lost in thought, he cast a colour-changing spell, ensuring that his (normally blue) right eye remained brown. Or bronze, as some of the teachers were now teasing him, in reference to one of the House colours.

It was welcome, to be teased. It meant they didn't fear him. From the half-goblin Ravenclaw leader, it wasn't even degradatory, it meant 'you're one of us' and in his softer moments Grindelwald felt inclined to accept that bond. He had never been Sorted, but considering it was his thirst for knowledge that had gotten him expelled and exiled, he might have had Ravenclaw traits in his youth. He certainly wasn't a Slytherin, he hated hiding in the shadows. He was no Hufflepuff, that was out of question, and so was Gryffindor: he could keep out of sight when he absolutely had to.

From the wintry panorama he turned back to the spacious room. He didn't deserve any of this. Not the opportunity to teach, nor the comfortable accommodation and the full meals, definitely not the illusion of belonging to a house. He belonged to nowhere but the bleak and abandoned Nurmengard, where he would be safely locked away from his victims... and from their descendants, he corrected himself, considering his students of various origin.

With a sigh, he grabbed a quill and started to plan out the Deutsche Sprache lessons for the following week. He had intended to teach some adjectives and give a brief overview of Durmstrang this month, but the student for whom he had chosen the topic had landed herself in the Infirmary after a dose of tainted Polyjuice. He had to save the school discussion for the time when those effects wore off.

To catch a break, he dispelled the sphere around Riddle's diary, and wrote a half-lie about some late homework. The friendly tone of the reply reassured him that the dark object had no sense of time, and neither did it detect the powerful spell Gellert had surrounded the booklet for over an entire day.

He cast the copying spell, then put the diary down and continued with his lesson plans. He wished his pupils could bring up their own prompts for the extracurricular, but their vocabulary wasn't on that level yet. And, most bitterly, Grindelwald remembered he wouldn't be here for long enough for that to happen.

There were his other notes on the bookshelf above the worktable, he summoned them and jotted down a few additions to many - including the school comparison lesson plan. In Durmstrang they taught the basics of dark magic, in Hogwarts, the children could only learn how to defend themselves from it (in a good year). In Durmstrang, you got expelled if you went beyond the curriculum, but you could earn a reward for great services to Hogwarts after creating a horcrux. (No, this wouldn't pass as school appropriate topic, he realized. He crossed it out. He bitterly wished he hadn't been refrained so easily, but he was a prisoner here and he had to abide the rules Dumbledore had set.)

He continued the same sheet with a different aspect. Durmstrang focused solely on wizarding people's education about their own culture, so there weren't any classes about muggles and the children born from them weren't taken in, either. Meanwhile, Hogwarts staff actively worked on bringing the two worlds together. The current headmaster of Durmstrang was a pardoned death eater (he had to look up the word in German, to be sure, but it was 'Todesser' – a literal translation) still being watched closely, while the headmaster of Hogwarts was the Supreme Mugwump who got away with minor breaches of the Statute of Secrecy.

He imagined his lesson plans would ruffle some feathers and make Albus's hair even whiter than it was now, but nobody could accuse him of spreading his own ideas this time. With a shrug, he dried the parchment and levitated it back to the bookshelf. He was meant to be working on the next lesson's theme chart, anyway. Last week they had covered Quidditch and numbers from _eins_ to _einhundert-fünfzig_ ; maybe they could discuss the basics of strategy and directions next. He'd have to be careful not to get carried away, these were beginners who hadn’t spoken a word of German before late November last year.

He was writing down the word 'die Täuschung' when he had a vision of Dumbledore finding the diary and the copied sheets next to it. The man seemed sad and burdened.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Whenever he'd spotted Albus in the past three and a half months, the old man appeared cheerful and his occlumency shields were tight like a rock wall. But in this vision, he didn't care about the appearances. He was crumbling under the weight of being the sole hero and nominal leader of the magical world. Grindelwald had pointed this out to him, sarcastically, several times, but only now did he get a true glimpse of the toll this responsibility was taking on his once-equal. At the peak of Riddle's reign it must have been even worse on him, organizing an unofficial fighting group and doing his best to cooperate with the local Ministry and with all those who couldn't be trusted.

Well, it was Albus's choice not to share world leadership with him.

An unbidden thought rose. Was it? Wasn't it Grindelwald who ran away after their first clash? And who was the first to call the other an enemy?

His thoughts returned to the barren prison that was his rightful share of the Wizarding World. And to Albus passing the wards as he had come asking for his help.

He focused on the diary and the dark magic seeping from the pages. He had a duty here. Albus was an enemy and he had long since accepted that, but the school Albus was leading was full with people who were magical, hence, his responsibility.

In the end, it was simple as that. Magicals were his people. He owed them.

He had his duty.

He reached for the rowan wand that had slowly accepted him, and dwelled into the magic that immediately reconnected with him.

Deciding he wasn't as skeletal as five months prior, he pointed the wand at his left eye, turning it to blue. He had already told the fifth and sixth years he'd been using self-transfiguration in his youth, and how that had been one of the first topics that had brought him and the headmaster close. There was no harm in blue eyes.

He was halfway down to the Great Hall for breakfast when his path crossed with Dumbledore's. The old wizard looked at him, confused. Something had to be off, but to both their annoyances Albus couldn't tell exactly what was wrong.

It took almost a minute of awkward silence before Dumbledore laughed out, his merry twinkle glimmering honestly in his eyes. “All right, so which eye colour did you plan to go with today, Abernathy?”

Grindelwald gave his defeater, one-time rival and former arch-nemesis a confused look.

Still grinning, Dumbledore pulled out his wand (the wand won from him almost half a century before) and pointed it at one eye. “Finite.”

Oh. He hadn't been paying attention and had miscoloured both.

“I hope at least I made your day with this,” Grindelwald growled, too proud to say thanks.

“Oh, you definitely did,” Albus replied. “You looked so odd with brown on the right and blue on the left.”

Oh, Albus, he was so careful not to show how much that hostile ‘gratitude’ had hurt him. The temporary Defence teacher took a breath. Maybe he should try and return the lack of abuse with a somewhat nicer attitude. “Heading to breakfast? I thought you'd take the opportunity to sleep in.”

“Wizengamot session at nine,” Dumbledore sighed. His earlier mirth was gone, but so was his hurt at the superficial jab.

Grindelwald remembered an earlier vision of a blond boy writing a peevish letter and demanding the Whomping Willow to be cut out in revenge for a sports tool. “If you see Malfoy, tell him to buy another broom for his heir. The current one will be broken in a childhood dare after quidditch training sometime next week.”

Albus seemed to be wondering if replacement of a broom even before the former one would be broken would be wise, but then he realized that couldn't be Grindelwald's plan. Indeed, Gellert was counting on the opposite to happen.

The headmaster, Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump nodded before finally admitting, “I missed the company of a true seer.”

 


	4. Dumbledore's realization

(During chapter 18)

 

Albus believed in the power of love but at times like this he was most tempted to abandon the concept; to agree with Tom Riddle’s belief that love was a weakness.

After all, it had been love that drove his father to avenge Ariana, love that blinded him to the true darkness behind Grindelwald’s intentions and love that prevented him from finally confronting him despite the atrocities he had committed. Now it was love that tore at him as he realised the consequences of his own careless actions once again.

He resented Grindelwald, hated him even, but he loved Gellert. Gellert was the boy that had researched with him, that had understood him and brought treats from his homeland over for tea. Grindelwald was the man that tore his life apart with a single curse, killed his sister and alienated his brother. Maybe it was also love that made him hate him more for that single moment than all the other atrocities he had committed.

It was Gellert that he had found in Nurmengard after 48 years and he’d been overjoyed to find his old friend. A hope had rekindled among the nerves, that maybe, just maybe he could regain his friend.

Of course, Gellert had ignored him for the entirety of the term. No, that was wrong, not ignored him, just not paid him much attention. Whether the many extracurricular activities were designed to avoid having to speak to him or a genuine want to teach, Albus could never work out. Either way, Gellert had worked miracles on the students and he could hardly complain because it was _Harry’s_ year group. The parents were beyond pleased and for once Lucius Malfoy wasn’t causing trouble in the Board. Of course he expected tomorrow’s post would change that. (And he guessed the most recent turn of events wouldn't have a hope of meeting Malfoy’s expectations, either.)

He only had himself to blame. Himself and his stupid, foolish mouth.

He hated Grindelwald, that man knew where it would hurt, he knew exactly where to shove those poisonous words to wound him the most, every point mirroring what he already believed, affirming those terrible truths.

But he hadn’t meant to send him back to prison, because it seemed Grindelwald was once more Gellert - whom the students needed.

But he had, and now his second chance was gone, taking with it any hope of a renewed friendship, any hope of reliving those idyllic days in Godric’s Hollow, any hope that there might be something between them.

He could justify his actions – Harry was protected by the blood wards with his aunt and at least they kept him humble. James and Lily had been destined to die, prophetised. It had absolutely nothing to do with him borrowing the Cloak that allegedly hid its owner from death. Returning it to a baby would have been foolish, so he’d been keeping it safe. If he used it... that was because it would be a waste for such a powerful magical artefact to go unused.

Yet in the end Grindelwald was right. He had robbed Harry.

He’d robbed him of his inheritance but worse, by doing so he had cost him his parents, his childhood and his future. If he hadn’t taken that cloak, maybe Harry would never have had to live with his aunt, would never have lived under a stairwell. Prophecies failed to come true in the way they had been expected to, he’d seen the evidence when he had been friends with Gellert.

He stood hurriedly, his robes swirling around his feet as he stepped around the desk and hurried to Gellert’s office. Hopefully he wouldn’t have gone down to breakfast yet, if fate was kind it would have him hiding in his room, afraid to face the students that he undeniably loved.

He should have known better. Albus only found the empty room.

The bed was neatly made, covers folded with the military precision that had been drummed into him at Durmstrang. The walls still glowed with writing, the concealment charms fading slowly to leave a spider web of overlapping words and diagrams. The desk stacked neatly with library books. At least the wardrobe was empty, his friend must have found a way around the prohibition not to take anything with himself. But no – most of the clothes Dumbledore had found a moment later on a chair, along with a note to the next teacher with a summary of his curriculum. In a spell-sphere lay Gellert's last project, the teenage Tom Riddle's diary, about which the young Weasley girl had shared so frightening details. A quick look at lose sheets just outside the bubble revealed that Gellert must have busied himself with cleverly getting information out of the worryingly dark object, as it was his specialty. Next to these lay a letter addressed to 'my brother in all but blood', dense with Gellert's resigned acceptance of his fate.

Dumbledore ran out of the abandoned quarters of his defeated friend, only to be stopped at the Great Hall's backdoor entrance by Charity Burbage. He only caught a glimpse of the old man as he'd marched out of sight, as he'd activated the portkey pendant whispering the German for 'for the Greater Good'.

The next thing he remembered was Minerva gently guiding him back to the hall as Flitwick was answering a cacophony of the students' questions. Albus didn't care about what was being asked or what Filius's replies were. He was staring out of the windows.

The grounds outside were dreary, as if matching his mood. Rain misted across the grounds, obscuring the gravel path. If he craned his neck he could just see the doors to the entrance hall, he could just see the place where his friend had been. The last place he had stood as a free man.


	5. A muggle poem of a far-away wizard

(During chapter 19) (The poem quoted is Lord of the Fish by Bertolt Brecht)

 

“Hey, ‘Dora.”

The witch, now an adult in both the wizarding and the muggle sense, looked up from her notes. She was only beginning her auror education the following week, but she had already been given a veritable mountain of newspaper cut-outs and all their associated reports to read 'while she still had time'.

“Hi, granddad.”

“I found this old poem in with my old police uniform, I thought you’d like to see it.” The old muggle said, sitting down on his witch granddaughter's bed with a book in his hands. “It’s not long, I heard you have plenty of reading material anyway.” His gaze wandered to a yellowed cut-out, on which a middle-aged man was staring into the camera haughtily. This piece of paper was set separated from the pile, perhaps ready to be glued to the upper corner of Nymphadora's mirror. That was where the very important pictures went. “Is this him?”

“Professor Wohl? Yes. I mean, Grindelwald.”

“To you, he's Wohl,” her grandfather smiled. “The Lord of the Fish.”

“What?”

“Read the poem. He's the one who can give advice on your everyday issues, but hastily leaves when his own life and drive are brought up. Here, read it.”

“Granddad...” She sighed, and sat down next to her closest muggle relative. “Oh, Brecht?”

“He’s known for more than just his plays, but this particular poem never gets its deserved recognition.”

Tonks morphed her arms a little larger and more muscular (muggle poets all seemed to share the bad habit of getting their writing published in bulky, heavy books regardless of the possibility to just split them up) and started to read.

Her granddad watched as she dove into the poem for the third time, her appearance shifting to that of a frail old man with odd eyes and hair as thick as his own. “So?”

“Here. _'_ _When he spoke so of their affairs /_ _They in their turn would ask: what of your own? / And he would look round smiling on all sides / And hesitantly say: got none.’_ That's him. How did you know?”

“You told us how he never honestly answered that one question. But as I said, I was looking for something else. Don't tell your grandmom, but I think she’ll like a little surprise in the form of theatre tickets.”

“I swear I won't,” the witch solemnly replied. “Gemino!”

A sheet of paper appeared, far from a perfect copy of the page she had pointed her wand at, but most of the text was legible. Her second attempt yielded a much better result, so she vanished the first one and placed the fresher copy next to the haughty wizard's newspaper-photograph. The man in the picture craned his neck to read what was written on the sheet below.

Then Nymphadora continued sitting on her bed, the heavy book still open in her enlarged hands. “Exactly how he left. _'_ _Politely, having nothing to offer them / A servant dismissed, he will go out. / No smallest shadow of him will remain / No hollow in the wicker seat.’_ Granddad? Which side of him do you think I will remember?”

He gave her a reassuring and calm look, somehow similar to the former teacher's, only, this one filled with true emotions. “No idea, dear. I can only tell you what Brecht would say. Poetry is an eye-opener to reality, and if you want to see true action, you have to act on that desire yourself.”

“Granddad?”

“If you want an answer, don't turn to me or some outdated text, ‘Dora. Grab a pen and ask him.”

“Granddad, do you understand it's a mass murderer we're talking about, who’d been feigning his interest in my education all the time? He doesn't even consider you a person, just because of your lack of magic!”

“That attitude is no news to me, remember, you have a Black for a mother.”

“Grindelwald’s off the scale,” Nymphadora sighed, her gaze wandering between the copied page and the judging look of the middle-aged wizard in the photo. “He must have wanted to crush my silly head for becoming an auror, of all things.”

“And still, he taught you better than the other six had. Seven, if I count Lockhart.”

“That’s why I don't know what to think about him,” the young witch admitted, her eyes shifting to Ravenclaw colours.

“That’s why I suggested you ask him. If Dumbledore could, so can you.”

Nymphadora's face now turned into that of her grandfather, except her eyes went clear blue. “Yeah, but he's Dumbledore.”

“’Dora, you always do that when you agree with someone,” the oldest Tonks noted.


	6. Strength

(During chapter 19)

 

The floo flared up in a warm shade of yellowish green, and a woman's face appeared in the flames. “Andromeda?” she called. “May I come through?”

“Mom! Someone's calling!”

The housewife swiped her wand at the dishes that now dropped into the sink, the clamour of them clinging against each other while washing themselves ending suddenly. “Yes, Nymphadora?”

“Floo!”

Andromeda cast a quick cleaning charm on herself as she walked into the living-room, then she froze on the monochrome carpet and gaped, “Cissa?”

“Meda, oh, it's you! May I come through, please?”

“Cissa, sister! How are you, Cissy? Sorry it's such a mess, I wasn't expecting anyone, but you've seen my room when I was ten...”

“I never cared then.”

“You did. But please, yes, come through! I didn't expect to ever see you again!”

The two witches hugged each other, for the first time in maybe two decades, then Narcissa Malfoy looked around and exclaimed, “You haven't changed one bit, ‘Meda!”

“Oh, stop your criticism!” Andromeda replied, but they both knew she meant the exact opposite: her younger sister could throw around remarks all day if it meant her staying for a little longer. Narcissa smiled indulgently at her, then scourgified the sofa instead of asking for permission to sit down.

“Lucius will be furious if he finds out that I came, but the Board is in session about the usual DADA business, so he won't be back anytime soon.”

“Is it usual for them to have hired a war criminal?” Andromeda inquired with a solemn face. “Oh sorry. Last year it was your never-dying Dark Lord.”

“Lucius knew. Grindelwald, I mean. He suggested it to Dumbledore, or so he says.”

“Nymphadora swears it was a good idea.” the hostess replied, summoning a basket of home-made cakes for the visitor. “Have you ever met her?”

“Where would I have?”

“Nymphadora! Come down, please!” her mother bellowed. “I have seen Draco at King's Cross of course, but I didn't want to impose on you and you clearly were distracted...” What went unsaid was that Narcissa didn't appear to want any sort of interaction with a disowned sister and her tainted family.

“Draco is growing into a wonderful young man, if a mother can say as much.”

Tripping on the last stair and catching herself on the railing in the last moment, Nymphadora arrived, with her usual bubblegum-pink hair and unmistakable face. “Good morning, Mrs Malfoy,” she cheerfully said. “Before mom can say the opposite, please call me Tonks.”

“But you have such a beautiful name, darling...”

“But it sounds too poncey,” she explained, her hair turning royal blue and knee-long for a moment. “I wouldn't mind if somebody else had it instead.”

“Please, when we're in private, just call me Cissa like your mother does,” the visitor offered. “And did I just see your wonderful talent?”

“I’m a metamorphmagus,” Tonks replied in a deep male voice while transfiguring her features into those of her muggle grandfather. “I heard it must have come from some very long forgotten wizarding ancestors, and if it's not my Black side, we can only guess at the others.”

“Sprout says Ted must be a squib descendant of a family talented in self-transfiguration, even if they weren't metamorphmagi.” Andromeda added. “Who can tell?”

“Everyone’s just making all sorts of guesses,” the girl shrugged. “Mrs Ma... Cissa, I suppose you came to see mom, so I won't hang around. Mom can tell you about the pile of assignments I received two days ago.”

 “I don't wish to hold you up, my dear niece,” the visitor replied most politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Better late than never,” Tonks smiled, taking on her appearance, earning a gasp. Then she fell over as she turned around, because copying Narcissa's regal bearing didn't beat her own clumsiness. She quickly righted herself and hurried upstairs again, mostly because she wanted to leave her mother and aunt (did Narcissa count as her aunt if her mother had been disowned?) to talk among themselves, and also because she was certain she'd be the one they'll talk about and even behind her back she loathed to be referred to as Nymphadora. So she settled in her reading nook and continued with the articles and case studies she'd been sent.

In the living room, the two sisters spent the next hours catching up with each other and exchanging news about people they had lost contact with. They ate all of Andromeda's cookie reserve, then Narcissa summoned the Malfoy family elf to bake some more. It was only after the new set was done that Narcissa remembered to tell the tiny creature never to mention to Lucius Malfoy that he'd seen her with her disowned sister. The elf panicked, how was he supposed to lie to his master?

“Well, the damage is already done,” Andromeda sighed. “Cissa, there's only one thing you can do if you want to keep this quiet.” She summoned one of her least favourite hats, a tall green cone with yellow and black ribbons on the top.

Narcissa paled, understanding she had to choose. It was either facing the disdain of the pureblooded society, or giving up the comfort that comes with owning a house elf. Lucius wouldn't be happy, but it was her choice to determine which would make her husband’s day worse.

In the end, it wasn't hard to decide. Her prestige was worth more than an irritating, overly talkative creep. “Dobby,” she called, “I want you to fake your death and never return to Malfoy Manor again. Especially not when my husband summons you.”

With that, she placed Andromeda's hat on the elf's bald head, so that only the large nose could be seen from the miserable creature. Then she did her best to ignore the happy dance and joyous calls of freedom, both of which Andromeda seemed to find quite amusing.

 


	7. Legilimency

(Between chapters 21 and 22)

 

Harry was safe, healthy and still in possession of the Cloak of Invisibility when Dumbledore had picked him up, but that was only to be expected. The boy had been in constant correspondence with his school friends who had not been worried about him in the least. The senior wardbuilder had also reassured the Supreme Mugwump each Tuesday evening that Harry was fine, happy, although disturbingly attached to 'that filthy war criminal’ and that he had continuously referred to Nurmengard as 'home'.

Now that Sirius Black had been proven innocent (and old Crouch would occupy his former cell for several months) it was obvious that Harry wouldn't be willing to return to Little Whinging anyway. Which was maybe for the better – if Harry went back to live with his muggle family, then Sirius would have accompanied him, either as human or as a dog.... and that would have been outright catastrophic, to the muggles and to the Statute and to the British magicals alike. And if something happened to Black during his recovery? Harry would grab his broom and fly over to the continent for the summer. Unless the Dursleys could be convinced to take that Nimbus away; but why would they? The fat muggle would be eager to be rid of him, he would probably even sign whichever muggle documents there are to allow an underage child to travel abroad by muggle means. Not to mention, with the Potter family’s wealth nobody would bat an eye if Harry mail-ordered a new broom for himself.

Honestly, the blood wards around Petunia Dursley's home could be forgotten. But where could the boy be hidden until he could defend himself? That led to another uncomfortable thought. In his last letter, Gellert wrote he 'will have to train the Master of the Cloak how to defend himself from the Master of the Wand'. Who could tell what that meant? If Gellert was infamous for one thing it was his tendency to hideously overdo whatever he set his mind on. The accusation hurt Albus, however. He would never try to take the Cloak. Never again. James Potter's death was enough on his conscience.

The headmaster stared at his wand with trepidation. What if Gellert had turned Harry against him? The boy had been with him for over three months! Sure, Dumbledore had faith in the boy, and Gellert himself told him in a detailed letter how Harry hadn't let him put his thoughts in a Howler, but after all that Grindelwald had done, Albus preferred to be safe rather than sorry.

Despite spending three months with Grindelwald, Harry still didn't hurry down for breakfast earlier than the average child. True, he went flying from his dorm window at dawn every now and then, that had to be a habit he had picked up in Nurmengard, but how could anyone read the thoughts of a wizard who was focused on performing a Wronsky feint?

The opportunity offered itself the first weekend after Harry's return. With the boy in Nurmengard, the Dursleys had never bothered to sign his Hogsmeade slip, and his godfather had yet to receive the schooling documents. Harry stayed behind with only a few students and some people from the staff.

It was easy to find him, and the young wizard greeted him with awe. Was that connected to the Elder Wand? Did the child know what exactly it was and who it had been taken from?

Yes and yes. There was no surprise.

“Hello, Harry. May I sit here?”

“Sure, professor. I'm waiting for Professor Lupin, he promised to show me how to pass into the...”

Confusion and awkwardness. Clearly the boy had heard (somehow) about the Shrieking Shack and that the Marauders had used it to an extent that it counted as their backup home. Remus had contacted Sirius there, once Andromeda’s daughter’s suspicion made him doubt his only surviving friend's guilt.

Did he also know Lupin was a werewolf? He blinked into Harry's emerald-green eyes.

Immediately, he found a memory of Alicia Spinnet pointing out that a werewolf is surprisingly mild after the last two Defence teachers they had had, to which Lavender Brown had replied 'two out of three' and then the Gryffindors had argued whether Lockhart had counted as a Defence teacher or not. Apparently, however, the general consensus was that Lupin’s infection was relatively little reason to worry. Having had a war criminal right before him had most certainly put his furry condition in a new light...

Another thought from Harry: werewolf or not, Remus was a good friend of James Potter.

 _Friends_...

Unprompted, Albus's mind jumped to his own youth, to his own best friend (no, Gellert wasn't a friend, he was EVERYTHING) and to a bag of Bertie Bott's Beans. A young and inexperienced Albus had laughed at the concept of seeing things through magic, to which a young and already experienced Gellert had responded by picking a specific greyish bean and daring Albus to try it.

Harry busted out laughing. “Sorry, professor. It's just, Professor Wohl never volunteered that memory. It helped that you've already told me the ending.”

Albus jumped up, and was embarrassed to realise that he’d screamed, then took several more steps backwards.

“Professor Dumbledore...?”

“You... You... How? You didn't even use your wand!”

“I’m sorry, professor. I didn't mean to sneak! It's just, you already told me it was vomit flavoured, and Professor Wohl never allowed me to see that one, so I just... I'm sorry, professor!”

The headmaster glared around in confusion, hastily raising shields around his own mind before Harry could look further.

“Albus, are you all right?” Minerva hurried to him, and Remus was also running from the other direction, inquiring about more or less the same.

Yes, he was all right. Only shocked. A few months prior Harry had not yet been a trained Legilimens.

He made sure he had his strongest Occlumency shields up before voicing his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Potter repeated.

“You did well, Harry,” Remus interrupted. “You caught your headmaster by surprise, that's a feat your dad would have loved to accomplish.” The werewolf even gave a thumbs-up.

“What happened?” Minerva insisted.

“I was caught by surprise,” Dumbledore repeated Lupin's words, “but no harm was done, I believe.”

Oh, the harm was done... Grindelwald had even warned him that he was preparing Potter to fight him off! That restless meddler. There was a reason nobody had been allowed to visit him! But it was way too late to regret trusting the dark wizard. “I didn't expect to find young Mr Potter in my mind wandlessly.”

“You were the one holding up the connection, sir,” Harry quietly explained. “I just went along.”

“Exactly how accomplished are you in Legilimency, Mr. Potter?” Minerva asked. She couldn't seem to decide whether she was angry or pleased. Shocked, that she certainly was.

“I’m learning to steer away from things I'm not meant to see,” Harry replied shyly. Of course he had a lot to improve in that field.

“That’s a very dangerous phase, my boy. Did Gellert teach you all that?”

A nod.

Albus sat down, his face pale. “I cannot imagine just what you've seen in his mind, my boy.”

“Much.” Enough that he could see the thestrals flying their morning rounds around the forest, but Harry wouldn't say that out loud.

So Gellert wasn't shy to let Harry see so much pain, so many deaths. But he declined to show him how he'd tricked a young Albus into taking that vomit-flavoured bean!

“Do you have anyone to practice with?” Lupin asked. He seemed torn between offering to help his best friend's son and keeping his furry misery to himself. Of course he couldn't offer to teach occlumency, but reading unshielded thoughts already took a lot of skill and long hours of practice.

Harry shook his head, not understanding the unspoken offer. “I was about to ask Hermione but she's too busy with all the classes she's taking. And Ron's been so sullen ever since his rat vanished.”

Remus paled, the one guilty in said rat's disappearance.

“Well, Severus owes me a favour anyway,” Dumbledore mused aloud. If Harry would take lessons from Snape, they might finally reach an understanding. Or, a slightly less preferable outcome: Harry would never try Legilimency again.

“I think Longbottom wouldn't mind,” Minerva said, however, almost at the same time.

Harry cheered up. “Yes! I'll ask him as soon as he's back from Hogsmeade!”

Albus honestly wished he could strangle Grindelwald with his bare hands, but the old criminal was a thousand miles away in Austria, so the worst the headmaster could do was to send a howler with Fawkes. (And he was at an advantage: not even Harry would stop him from that.)

But, by the time he was in his office again, he found himself composing a normal letter.

'Gellert,

I wish you were here right now...'

 

 


	8. Background chatter

(During chapter 22)

 

“Do you think we should sit in the front row?” Harry asked, unsure exactly how to behave with the man who had recently been revealed to have been the most loyal friend of his dead parents. Sure, 'Padfoot' was kind and desperately trying to make up for twelve lost years, but he was still a stranger to the boy.

That was why one of the teachers had suggested that Sirius took him to see a proper duelling championship, an event that the boy was eager to witness anyway; neutral enough, yet offering an opportunity for the two of them to talk about anything that came to their minds. Sirius had been on cheering potions for two weeks in the wizarding hospital, but roaming the muggle roads of London helped his mental recovery more. He would still be returning to St Mungo's for the night, and he still read the Daily Prophet in the fifth floor tearoom in the mornings. He sent letters almost every day, and the current Defence teacher had talked a lot about him... But he was still a stranger to Harry despite his best efforts.

“Only if you have reflexes to shield yourself from stray hexes,” Sirius replied his godson’s question. “The pitch is warded, of course, but accidents happen when the caster puts all her magic into the spell, and these are professionals we'll be seeing. At least I remember a peculiar witch who charred my clothes when I sat there. But maybe it was intentional.”

Not quite intent on getting his new trousers burnt, Harry settled in the second row, with his godfather by his side.

The first few duellers were juniors, most of whom he remembered from the club last year. Sirius was eager to hear about them, as most of them had parents whom he had once fought side by side with.

The matches between the adults were fast and mesmerizing. He often found himself asking what spell he had just seen, and after a while Sirius started to tell him even without Harry's prompting. His once-quick reflexes were yet to return to him, however, and some of the most creative jinxes had been created after his imprisonment.

A young man came to their rescue, a sports reporter of the Aspen Journal. He was enthusiastic about the 'nine-sixteen' hex, especially, a recent trick that distorted the opponent's body a tiny bit, impairing their wand-eye coordination just enough that they wouldn't hit their target square in the head with their next jinxes. Some of the professionals had already started training for the new body ratios, claiming it was easier to adapt than to waste time re-transfiguring themselves.

Harry politely thanked the young man for the clarification, and didn't hesitate to ask him the next time his godfather couldn't provide an explanation. The journalist was eager to help.

It was only at the end of the daily programme that the young man realized who he'd been talking to. He never had a penchant for tabloid news, he admitted apologetically. Nor Harry, nor Sirius seemed to mind.

“You made a journalist friend today,” his godfather later pointed out. “I know it sounds like Slytherin advice, but keep him close.”

“You’re right, it does sound like Slytherin advice,” Harry mirthlessly nodded, quietly adding there was a Durmstrang who would have most certainly told him the exact same. “But you told me your entire family was in Slytherin. It's all right that they rubbed off a little.”

Padfoot replied with that smile of his: wide but still lacking the humour that had been dried out of him during twelve years of dementor exposure. “I’ll try to behave more like a Gryffindor,” he promised. “I’ll try to be the godfather Prongs intended for you.”

“Is it true that you and Dad held the record for most detentions in a school year?”

“Who told you that? Moony?”

Harry shook his head. “Professor McGonagall.”

 


	9. To the brim!

 (During chapter 23)

 

The Beauxbaton carriage was gorgeous, and the winged Abraxan horses were mesmerizing, but they couldn't hold Charity Burbage's attention for long. Not when the legendary Durmstrang ship was rocked by the waves of the Hogwarts Black Lake.

She'd heard so much about her, and she truly was a majestic sea farer built to withstand storm and dragon attacks alike. Above the sails, the two-headed eagle spread its wings against a white background; from what Gellert had told her, the contrast between black and white represents pride and the choice of colours also displays benign intentions. This ship came with peace.

She had seen several of the foreign students spread throughout Hogwarts, chatting with the locals, more than once in German. She'd also spotted Potter and the Weasleys jointly setting up a 'WE WANT QUIDDITCH' sign right opposite the Goblet of Fire and knowing how Malfoy worked the Board of Governors, it was only a matter of time before the world-class Quidditch player Krum would be pressed into a match. Although, he didn't appear to need much encouragement in that direction, Charity had already spotted him with a broom, looking positively hungry at the sight of the pitch just outside the school. Durmstrang's weather didn't permit much sporting activity outside, she recalled.

She found the ramp of the majestic Durmstrang ship, and took a hesitant step upwards. If they didn't want visitors, they certainly would have warded their vessel, she mused, not noticing the bracelet warming up on her wrist. She'd been wearing it for almost two years now, it had started to feel like a part of her. With her eyes on the narrow gangway, she also missed the runes glowing brightly on the onyx and tiger-eye gems. She stepped aboard with a friendly smile and open curiosity, although in hindsight, Karkaroff's consternation should have warned her.

The dark-haired headmaster casting a reductor spell in her direction, however, did catch her attention. As she'd been drilled, she pulled her wand and cast a shield with the same motion.

The headmaster demanded to know who the hell she was, brandishing his wand all the while. The Muggle Studies teacher, she replied, and she only came up here because she didn't notice the wards. She asked if being thrown into the water would be the proper welcome, Karkaroff growled a warning that his next spell would be much more destructive.

Seeing how frustrated the wizard was, Charity could think about only one way to continue this discussion in a civilized manner. Focusing on the school kitchen she summoned two glasses and filled them with the muggle-made beer she'd bought for her seventh-year class.

Karkaroff grabbed his glass on reflex, his wand still trained on the intruder. Charity attacked.

Their duel lasted little more than twelve seconds, it took only this long for them to both spill the contents of their glasses on each other. Admitting defeat, she dried her own dress, then refilled both glasses and took duelling stance again.

Karkaroff stared at her while drying his own white coat. She was trained by a Durmstrang, he noted. And she'd been trained well, he added in a somewhat shaken voice.

“He told me to be ready to defend myself and my views,” Charity smiled. “I’ve never been really good at fighting otherwise.”

That much Karkaroff could see, he noted sarcastically as he straightened from the beer-soaked boards. He apologized for the hostility, but with the rising death eater activity and his past, he didn't like anyone intruding. Then he admitted no sane death eater would try and disguise themself as a Muggle Studies teacher, of all things.

“Being alert isn't bad,” she replied with a benign smile. “Not being able to defend our drinks, however, is foreboding for us both.”

This time it was Igor Karkaroff's turn to fill their jars. “So, what do you say?”

“To the brim!” she replied on reflex. The next moment, Karkaroff attacked.


	10. The Goblet

 (During chapter 23, sometime after 'To the brim')

 

“In the end, I daresay we needed him more than he needed us,” Charity muttered after she'd taken her seat in the Great Hall, her right arm still resting on Karkaroff's. Explaining where she got her Durmstrang-style duelling habits was going better than she had expected, and she had to admit this pardoned death eater looked three times as good as the other one who’d been teaching Potions. Even in its simplicity, his garment was elegant and in the past few hours, his bearing had been reflecting a balance of self-respect and grace.  His minuscule gestures hinted at a desire to live up to a standard another Durmstrang had set high.

“Albus is world-known for arranging second chances, who am I to judge him for taking in the darkest wizard available.” The Russian headmaster blinked at the other former death eater: Snape was coming from the direction of the Slytherin dungeons, greasy and gloomy as always. The white-coated wizard rubbed his left arm that was no longer held out for the witch. “Though as I heard, not even Grindelwald could break the curse on your school. That doesn't sound reassuring to me.”

There was a moment of silence. The one-eyed wizard took a gulp from his flask, Hagrid broke off his chatter with Olympe Maxime mid-sentence.

“If it helps, I'm afraid too,” Charity eventually admitted. “Afraid of We-Know-Who, I mean. But I've been told to react quickly and start planning ahead, not to bury my head in negligence like our Ministry was doing a decade ago.” That statement earned a curious look from the Russian wizard, so she explained. “I know he’s getting stronger. Sev is a good friend of mine and he's been bothered by his Mark too. He won't say it aloud, but I see him with that ultimately hateful glare at his own sleeve... I might be naive but I'm not stupid.”

“At least you are not a target.”

Karkaroff received a dry laughter for a reply. “I teach Muggle Studies, how can I not be?”

Remembering that she claimed to be ready to react, the Durmstrang headmaster quietly asked, “So what will you do?”

Burbage blinked at a guardian statue in the hall, then at the tiny professor a few seats away. “Join whoever will oppose him,” she replied as if that was the most obvious choice. “Train our people to fight. Set a trap under the disguise of only protecting muggles.”

“The young lady is clearly Grindelwald-trained,” Moody growled from between Vector and the Beauxbaton headmistress. “We will see how well she will fare.”

“She’s braver than I am, Auror Moody,” Karkaroff told the Defence teacher.

“Don’t we all know that!”

“Boys, please!” Charity laughed in an attempt to dissipate the tension between the auror and former death eater. She never considered herself brave, only confident. Bravery was what Albus had been doing: organizing an international event that's dangerous even without her marked colleague giving his arm death-glares every week.

“Burbage is suicidal,” the arriving Snape remarked. “Already taking on twice as much risk as she can handle.”

She quietly disagreed. She'd been training hard for two years now: seven months with a dark wizard as her tutor and with a champion duellist as her training partner ever since. But she said nothing, Aberna... Gellert had always told her to take advantage of her unsuspecting enemies. ‘Be like the dolphin,’ he had told her; she should be kind, fun and utterly harmless until she needed to act, so nobody would suspect it when she revealed herself to be strong, fast and surprisingly ruthless.

“I doubt you'll ever hear a more flattering statement,” Igor whispered into the witch's ear when Severus turned away for a moment.

She was about to whisper something back but Albus Dumbledore rose and announced now was the time for the Goblet to choose the champions for the Tournament.

“Let us see the heroes!” Alastor said dryly.

There were three rounds of applause as the old cup spat out the names of Victor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory. Charity clapped enthusiastically for each, her cheerful demeanour pulling even Karkaroff into a brief applause for each champion. The hall burst into excited chatter as the last of the schools was selected; students and staff alike eagerly discussed the upcoming competition.

Then suddenly blue light flared across the room and a confused hush dropped like a blanket. Every eye was riveted to the slip of slightly charred paper as it drifted down into Albus’ outstretched hand. The wise headmaster stared at the slip for a solemn moment, then raised his head to announce the name. The clatter of a plate falling off the Gryffindor table rang deafeningly through the room as everyone turned to stare at Harry Potter. Miss Granger began to push him up, prodding the dazed boy into wandering up the aisle towards the door the other champions had taken.

“But...”

Yes, the night before, half the school had witnessed Harry flying over the age line on an ancient broom. Not only him, several Weasleys and a few Ravenclaws, and even some Slytherins had taken rounds as well.

“But our sheets were all red!” one of the Weasley twins shouted, looking at the tan parchment that Albus Dumbledore was holding.

“Red all over, and they had QUIDDITCH written on them!” the other Fred-or-George exclaimed.

“I wrote my own name!” young Malfoy joined the protests.

“That's not mine!” Harry protested as he came close to the table, not that he needed to have bothered as his voice rang across the hall. “Fred and George can attest, mine was howler-red and it read Quidditch!”

“Potter, I'm extremely disappointed!” Minerva said quietly, in that tone of voice that worked better than a shout. She had been lured to Hagrid's hut at the time of the broomflight, so hadn’t been there to scold the boy at the time. “The Tournament is not the appropriate time for idiotic childhood pranks!”

 “But only seventh years can enter!” Draco Malfoy’s haughty expression was even more disapproving than usual. It was very rare for him and Potter to agree on something, but apparently the thought of Potter competing was enough for even these two boys to find common ground.

“ENOUGH!” Karkaroff eventually thundered over the other students that had begun to chip in with their opinions. “The three champions have been chosen. The little saboteur can go and fly his broom while we see to the adults' business.”

“It’s not that simple,” the local Defence teacher glared, using his staff to push himself to his feet. “The goblet is an ancient magical artefact – a binding contract. Potter must compete, or risk his life and magic.”

“But I didn’t want to do it!” Harry protested.

“Alastor is correct.” Dumbledore announced heavily. “However your name appeared in the goblet, you are now bound to it.”

“Wait, Albus, you can't mean he'll COMPETE?” Karkaroff yelled.

“I won't!” Harry quickly agreed.

“You must, Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, defeated. “You will, lest you lose your magic. I warned you not to meddle with the Goblet of Fire.”

 

.

 

“This's insane!” Karkaroff growled the following day. “Just because Dumbledore cannot keep order in his own school, Hogwarts will have two champions!”

“It’s not really worth fretting about,” Charity tried to calm him. “What matters is that all four students survive, at least you have one less champion to worry about, and it's not your pupil who's underage.”

“Like Albus ever cared about the age and survival of anyone?” Igor replied. “But this is nonsense! It should be T-R-I -wizard Tournament...”

“And it still is. Beauxbaton's champion is a witch, not a wizard.”

A little further down the same corridor they spotted a number of Gryffindors arguing with the current Defence teacher. Charity couldn't put her finger on why she'd found Alastor Moody even stranger than usual; perhaps she was seeing things after she'd read Tonks's message about how her mentor had been avoiding her ever since the school term started.

“Auror Moody, good morning to you!” his colleagues greeted him.

He replied the same, then hurried over to them with his slightly lopsided pace. “We might have just found an explanation of Potter's mysterious entering,” he announced.

“I suppose Albus will be happy to hear it,” Karkaroff replied, his tone as cold as the winds of Siberia. Charity winced at the unveiled hostility, knowing that it would only create suspicion and rumours among the students. Yet, he wouldn't be the first reformed dark wizard she'd formed a tentative friendship with, not even the second. Some people really only needed a second chance.

As it turned out, the Hogwarts headmaster wasn't the least pleased by the theory Alastor had presented, and the other two weren't thrilled either. But it really made sense....

The Goblet of Fire had been spelled, centuries before, to pick a name from one wizarding institute each. Three is a magical number, and most of the time there were three schools participating. Unlike the other places, however, Hogwarts was magically constructed around the number **four** , and there was a single student who'd been trained at a fourth place. His education there had been temporary, but unquestionable and excessive.

“What are you talking about?” all three headmasters demanded, while Harry weakly protested that he wouldn't be representing a 'number four' of any sorts. He was ignored by Mad-Eye's entire audience.

“Potter will be representing Nurmengard,” the retired auror announced.

“No!” Karkaroff shouted.

“He’s right, Harry was trained by Grindelwald in Nurmengard.” Charity pointed out in a calming voice. Just like Harry before, she was ignored so she allowed herself to fade to the back of the conversation. She was intelligent enough to realise that nobody would listen to her.


	11. The first task

(During chapter 23, a little while after The Goblet)

 

“Professor...?”

“Harry.”

The boy's slumped shoulders spoke of the exact opposite of the defiance he'd displayed only a few days before, but it wouldn't undo the harm he'd caused and wouldn't remove him from the Tournament. Not only had he found a decades-old broom and crossed the age line on it, not only had he driven the three headmasters to an endless debate and put himself in danger by throwing his paper in the Goblet, no. The Daily Prophet's latest editorial read 'Potter: Grindelwald's champion?' to which the boy hadn't even reacted with a headshake. Not one minute after the post arrived, the Weasley twins had released a firework that formed a brightly glowing Hallows symbol above the Gryffindor table, to which Harry only replied a quiet 'that's true' before Miss Granger had kicked his ankle under the table. Dumbledore had expected him to deny the tabloid’s accusation. Harry was first and foremost a Hogwarts student. Or at least, he should have been that, and not a pawn in the game between two very old wizards.

“Professor, we just had Defence with Professor Moody, and he said again that it was my mere presence that made the Goblet of Fire think I was a candidate from a fourth school. That it would have chosen my name even if I hadn't thrown that 'Quidditch' card in it. Do you think that may be true?” he looked up with hopeful green eyes. And with a bleeding scar on his forehead.

“We will never know what would have happened, Harry,” Dumbledore forced out, trying to appear less hostile than he had actually felt. 'Grindelwald's champion' wasn't someone he wished to share much kinship with. “Our world is based on consequences, you must learn that,” he added in a cold tone.

“And intent,” Harry replied. “I didn't intend to swear my magic into the Tournament.” Steeling himself, he continued, “I know I shouldn't be sorry for something beyond my will, but I still am, Professor. I didn't intend to...”

“Who told you that? Gellert?”

Harry looked at the grandfatherly figure in front of him and shook his head. “Sirius Black.”

The headmaster deflated visibly at the mention of that name. Sirius was a pain the magical world would yet again have to live with, but he wasn't a dark wizard by any means and accusing him of being the secret-keeper (standing idle as Crouch had sentenced him for life without a trial) was the worst guilt Dumbledore now had to live with. It was treason. Treason against a man who'd sworn his wand to him and to the Order.

“Sirius has always been a prankster and I wouldn't be surprised if he gave you the idea to use a broom older than seventeen years.”

Harry nodded.

Dumbledore thanked Merlin – the entire broomflight was only Black's prank, not Grindelwald's manipulations at work again. “I understand you're sorry, even if it won't change the results. You cannot quit the Tournament now.”

Harry seemed relieved at that. A tiny bit of forgiveness was what he'd been after, then, not an excuse to abandon the championship he had unknowingly turned upside down by entering.

The last letter Gellert had written Albus had been addressed as 'my (least) favourite hypocrite'. The headmaster grit his teeth and tried to be a bit friendlier with Harry, but at the same time he kept his occlumency shield up – as did the boy. Hopefully, acting friendly would help him defuse the situation to the point where it would no longer be an act.

“You're a brave boy, Harry. Maybe a bit too brave, but I'll never doubt you're a true Gryffindor.”

“Thank you, professor,” Potter forced out a smile. “I will compete as a Nurmengard’s champion, but sir, can I still be a Hogwarts student when it's done?”

That was no acting. That was an honest and heartfelt plea of a boy who still wanted to belong, not just somewhere but here, to him...

“Hogwarts has been my first home,” the youngster continued. He allowed a blink into his mind, but immediately was hit by a wave of pain. Rubbing his lightning scar, he slammed back his shields again. He tried to look as if nothing had happened, but dark blood was seeping again from where the killing curse had hit him. An unmistakable sign that Voldemort was growing in strength again, and all of a sudden Dumbledore found himself grateful for those months Harry had spent with his imprisoned private tutor. Grindelwald must have had Albus in mind when he had trained young Potter, but knowledge was knowledge and it was Harry's choice who he would use it against. And the boy (not for the first time) made his loyalty clear, even if he had too much of his father to be a model student.

On top of all that, he was fighting Voldemort day after day, closer to the dark monster than anyone ever, in constant danger, too.

“Hogwarts will always be there for you, and happily welcome you back,” Dumbledore reassured him. “You belong here, Harry, no matter what robe you wear.”

The boy gave him a very shy smile. “I haven't thought about a uniform,” he admitted.

That was an opportunity to change the topic, and Dumbledore jumped for it. “Let me or Minerva know if you have any ideas.”

“I don’t suppose I can compete in my quidditch gear?”

There they were again, at quidditch – at flight and personal freedom.  Harry apparently repelled all the world domination ideas Grindelwald must have tried inflicting on the boy; he really wasn't the power-hungry type. Albus considered it a miracle that Harry didn’t drive the old enemy mad.

“We will arrange something similar,” the headmaster offered.

He reached to see Harry's thoughts, now certain that the shield of occlumency wasn't intended for him. The boy's mind willingly opened up, letting him see the badly-ended prank in detail, although he fought not to give out any other student who'd followed him on the old broom that night. Of course, Dumbledore still recognized all three attending Weasley boys, two of the Slytherin chasers, and even a Ravenclaw girl who was only curious whether she could pass the age line but didn't throw in anything. Albus caught a glimpse of 'A hundred and one forms of magical fire,' a book that had been in the restricted section here but had to be easily available from the Black family library. He tried to re-focus on the pranksters, only to test how well Harry's shields could hold. Harry only supplied him with the words 'together' and 'friendship' and the next memory their shared attention grabbed was that of a summer almost a century before. Gellert, their blood pact, Godric's Hollow, then Gellert again... Harry collapsed on an alcove seat, exhausted, disappointment written all over his face.

The next moment, a dark manor appeared in both their visions. The boy gathered up his strength to occlude his mind again.

“Harry...” the headmaster gaped, terrified of what he'd now caught a glimpse of.

“I’m trying to keep him out,” young Potter explained, clearly ashamed and unwilling to share more. He closed his eyes and focused on closing his mind, not because he wanted to block his headmaster out, but because he wouldn't let Voldemort further in.

“Take your time, Harry,” Albus whispered. “Lock him out.” He wandlessly cleaned the blood from the boy's forehead, then waited with a mixture of worry and patience. At least Potter's occlumency worked against the stray soul-fragment in his head, even though Dumbledore doubted that was why Grindelwald had taught it.

A traitorous thought, however, reminded him that Gellert was a seer and he was aware of Harry's extra splinter of a soul. He must have foreseen young Potter's need for mental shields. Another traitorous thought: during that horrible welcoming feast after Easter over a year before, Gellert had already stood up for Harry, enraged by the theft of the Cloak. Grindelwald had never been a selfless person, but maybe he was genuinely on Harry's side. A third thought: after forty-eight years in absolute solitude, the most horrible wizard of the century had willingly bonded with students who wouldn't be of use to any sort of goal to him.

Certainly, Gellert had changed, Albus quietly admitted to himself. Changed in his goals, changed in his ways, maybe one day they would even forgive each other.

Aberforth would explode in anger, that day.

After long minutes, Potter sighed and opened his eyes. His occlumency shields were up again, stronger than before. “Voldemort’s regaining his power,” he whispered. “He has a body now, weak, but it's his own. I've also seen a large green snake with him.”

“Don’t try to actively spy on him,” the headmaster warned. “That would only strengthen your bond even further.”

“I thought I already failed this year's no-looking-for-trouble challenge.”

“Oh, is there only one per year?”

Remembering the previous subject the boy suddenly asked, “Headmaster, do you think Professor Wohl would approve of me wearing a robe with the Hallows sign?”

Dumbledore wrapped him in a heartfelt hug, the champion who had been fighting Voldemort all his life and now in a prank had landed himself yet again in a situation he'd been too young for.

“My boy,” the headmaster whispered. “You have more right to it than I and Gellert combined. You’re a Perevell by blood.”

Harry nodded with a wide smile, and wiped away the last black drops of his scar with the back of his hand.

 

 


	12. Third task

(During chapter 23)

 

 

The quidditch pitch, even in its butchered state, brought back a lot of memories. It'd been only a few years since Tonks had graduated from Hogwarts. While she'd never taken part in the game, she still loved quidditch and the hype around it. Also, having read the statistics, she considered any sort of broomsports a lot safer than the Triwizard Tournament.

As usual, and as it was her job now, she watched the people rather than the playing field. After the death eater attack at the World Cup, Bones wasn't taking any chances, so half the auror force was now sitting in the stands, some blending in easily, some in uniform, and some standing out like a sore thumb. She took a sniff and immediately recognized lacewing stew in the air, so there was somebody under Polyjuice too. She couldn't remember anybody choosing this method of blending in, but then, she hadn't really been paying attention during the briefing on disguises.

She stood up and checked where her recognizable colleagues had been stationed: Wohl had repeatedly warned her that such information can make the difference between life and death. Her gaze met with Remus's and she quickly decided she'd consider him an honorary auror if any need would arise. Sirius next to him was much more of a dark horse, a competent fighter beyond doubt, but he didn't match well with the aurors who’d spent last year trying to get his soul sucked out.

Back to the quidditch pitch – she wondered how long it would take to make it useable again. Flitwick and Wohl had cleaned it up immediately after having used it as a history theatre every time, and it had taken half an hour for the two very accomplished wizards. 'Burning it down would have been easier,' her Defence professor had commented once. But that would have rendered it useless as a quidditch pitch for weeks.

Now painstakingly grown bushes formed a maze and the centre circle hosted the tree-sized spinney hiding the Triwizard Cup. She tried to find the four champions, but could only make out some spellfire in the far left. Then she spotted the Durmstrang boy riding a huge spider (was it an acromantula under Imperius?) and getting lost in the maze.

“What’s with that frown?” a fellow Hufflepuff who had been doing OWLs when Tonks had graduated, now asked.

“I won't see what'd be happening in the Cup spinney,” she replied. “And if you look closer, it's constructed so that nobody without a broom can.”

“And brooms are not allowed, not after Potter's stunt with the Goblet,”  the younger girl added. “That’s unfair, we'll miss the most important moment.”

Again, it was Wohl's training that kicked in. 'If something is out of sight, consider it hidden. If it is hidden, consider it a trap.’

She stood up and marched to the closest senior member of their forces. “Auror Proudfoot, the design of the maze is screaming 'death eater trap' to me. I call it an instinct, sir. The most essential point is obscured from the view of anyone.”

Her mind jumped to the one wizard who was still enjoying full view of the Third Task.

“You’re more paranoid than your mentor, Tonks,” Proudfoot must have also been thinking about Moody as well. “And he doesn't appear more worried than usual, at least to me. Don't bother yourself with your instincts.”

“Those are Grindelwald-honed instincts,” she pointed out.

“I’ll ask who designed that part of the maze and alert Scrimgeour immediately,” was the reluctant reply.

Proudfoot dawdled away and Tonks hoped they'd get a reply before the first champion reached the overgrown bushes. Then her gaze wandered back to Mad-Eye, her beloved instructor. He looked just as battle-hardened as she'd last seen him, but more troubled than usual. Wohl had warned her in a letter around Halloween that the seer had caught a glimpse of the auror in some extremely dark place, helpless without his wand, without his wooden leg and without his magical eye. He had urged her to check on him, warning her that the curse had apparently picked up speed. Tonks was extremely busy at the time, however, with the first assignment that was entirely her own, and didn't have time for more than a floo call. Afterwards it was Mad-Eye that was in constant hurry, firstly because of the tournament, particularly the Durmstrang headmaster, suspect and target at the same time. (Tonks had heard, however, that Karkaroff was under the much closer watch of  another member of the Hogwarts staff, namely, Burbage. Their photo made it to the Witch Weekly’s front page more than once.)

Moody was now glaring intensely at the maze, even as Tonks started to openly stare at him. That was odd, Mad-Eye had never before been as focused on something so as to not take a few blinks in other directions, and he would have never failed to notice being watched. At this point Tonks no longer needed her training from anybody to conclude that something was wrong.

“Hi, Remus! Wotcha, cousin.”

“Tonks, it's so nice to see you!”

“Hi.” Apparently, Sirius was experiencing the foreboding feeling too.

This was her place to come, then. “What is it, cousin?”

“Fudge’s bodyguard is giving me shivers. I should have grown used to them, don't you think?”

Oh, she almost forgot that the minister had brought along a dementor as bodyguard. She wasn't fond of the idea either, but the nonbeing was alone, easy to subdue for even a single witch like her. But she remembered talking with Remus last year near the forest, and back then he'd been forced to reveal his patronus to her, and leaving her to guess the rest. Yes, it was a wolf, a creature Lupin hadn't been exactly fond of. But Tonks was, had been, and would always be.

She shook herself. A dementor was not supposed to distract her with good memories, either.

“Mad-Eye’s not acting like himself,” she eventually busted. “And I smell Polyjuice.”

“Nonsense, nobody would be able to Polyjuice as Moody,” Sirius shook his head. “I mean, it's not impossible to summon a hairline, but getting an exact same eye? That'd be tricky.”

“And where would he put the real Mad-Eye?” Remus also wondered.

Wasn't that a question...

“Tonks, you look positively creepy when you pale,” Sirius kindly pointed out. She willed some colour back on herself.

“Would you please help me sniff around?” she asked. It was a long shot, considering Sirius's past, but he was a dog animagus, so maybe...

“Not while Harry is still down there,” her cousin replied.

Most dissatisfied, she moved back to her assigned spot to watch. She cast a human-revealing spell, but it only showed half of the champions, two people who were around the edges. One had to be Krum on his spider, the poor boy really didn't seem to be at home on the ground. He reminded the auror of herself. The Beuxbaton witch was moving along the edge of the maze a little further. The other two were perhaps obscured by the hedge, the entire point of building a maze was to make navigation impossible and dangers troublesome to spot.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a blue flash of light from behind the central spinney's green walls and she could clearly tell, even without re-casting the revealer spell, that there were three others right in the middle. Yellow sparks were thrown in the air, and she could tell the three humans (newcomers?) started to move back to the maze's entrance point.

Perhaps it would be a joint victory, she mused. Two students still lost in the maze, two on their way out, she counted. So who could the last one be? Yellow sparks... Did they stand for Hufflepuff, as in, Diggory got the Cup? Why didn't Harry join him with the lightning, like when he had driven the Horntail away from her eggs?

“Tonks, you were right, it was built by Mad-Eye and he placed the Cup as well,” Proudfoot suddenly appeared next to her.

“Where was I right?” she blinked back, confused.

“Moody is the only one who can see into the spinney with his eye,” her colleague stated. “Now that makes my instincts itch as well.”

Tonks looked around to see Savage and Dawlish blocking the stand upon which the one-eyed wizard was standing. And he was pale as porcelain, gawking in the direction of the approaching newcomers in utmost disbelief. There was a blue flash, similar to what she'd seen before, and now she recognized it as the shade called 'portkey-blue'. The wizard's wand was pointing at his own walking stick, but before he could have grabbed the violently shaking object, Kingsley's stunner hit him square in the chest from near the Minister's side. Dawlish cast a sphere on the stick before any bystanders would have touched it and Savage was already running up the wooden stairs. Tonks watched them with slight jealousy for their precise, fluid movement, but (as many had agreed) her talents lay elsewhere.

She hurried, as fast as she could without falling over, to the castle, her nose turning instinctively into that of a hunting-dog's. Nobody asked what she was doing with a hound face as she found the room from which lacewing stew smell was seeping. 'Alohomora' didn't work, but 'Sesame, open' blasted the locked door out of her way. Once inside, she went for the most obvious object that had view-obscuring spells and locks on it. She cast the strongest opening spells she had ever managed.

And found Mad-Eye, in a horrible shape, humiliated and weak, but still alive.

She helped him out of his own travel trunk, then threw a fistful of powder into the floo, and called first Headquarters, then St Mungo's.


	13. To cope with victory

(During Chapter 23)

It hadn’t been long into Cornelius Fudge’s term as Minister for Magic that he had discovered that an excellent start to a day almost inevitably meant it would become terrible before noon. For example, the last time he had woken feeling this cheerful it had been the day of the Quiddich World Cup and that had ended terribly with the appearance of the Dark Mark and a following death eater rally. Only months before that, Bones had promised that her best auror was on the point of bringing in Black in the morning, only for the afternoon report to inform him that they had falsely imprisoned a member of house Black for twelve years without a trial! Of course, that one had been a particularly precarious situation because the reason Black was imprisoned in the first place was due to a testimony from none other than Dumbledore. The scapegoat had been, eventually, old Crouch. Just when everyone thought old Barty could not fall lower...

Fudge glared up at the beautifully shining sun, wondering which of the high risk, potentially disastrous events today would go wrong. Perhaps he would stutter whilst awarding the trophy, or even end up having to award the trophy to the _French_. Oh, how he hated that dreary minister who always stood upon prehistoric protocol and made Cornelius feel like a bumbling fool whenever they met.

Oh yes, he decided. It would almost certainly be the Tournament; it was already a disaster, what with the underage Boy-Who-Lived competing in Nurmengard’s colours of all things. By now, even the Ministry workers weren’t shy to wear Grindelwald’s insignia on their robes, claiming it was support for Potter. He’d heard endless grumblings from the Bulgarian minister about the matter and the Norwegians were none too happy either.

At least, looking at the positives, it was a very public demonstration of how Dumbledore was losing control of even his students. Honestly, before his election, Cornelius would never have imagined looking forwards to his own school’s defeat at such a prestigious event, but the circumstances would be rather beneficial to him if the Potter boy took the trophy. Dumbledore’s champion would lose, discrediting him - even though a British wizard still wins, reflecting positively on Cornelius.

Of course, Durmstrang wouldn’t be too terrible an outcome either; Krum was very popular after that spectacular catch at the World Cup and having Nurmengard’s champion defeated by the Bulgarian might perhaps smooth some of the ruffled feathers from up that way. Then there was Amos Diggory's son.... Fudge waved the thought away. When had a Hufflepuff won in any sort of a competition? In his experience, all of them were too soft for victory.

He shook his head, deciding that however unlikely it must be a French win, that would be how this day was ruined and he’d have to congratulate that French minister.

.

He shook hands with all three headmasters: with Igor Karkaroff who was a pardoned death eater, with Olympe Maxime who was (as Skeeter had recently found out) a half-breed, and with Dumbledore whom Fudge simply defined as the enemy. The formalities completed, he proceeded to the highest stand from where he could see over the entire  maze. With a frown, he noted the very centre of the maze was surrounded by hedges so high that even from this prime spot he couldn’t see inside. Perhaps the designers had decided it would add to the suspense.

The original plan had been to hold the task at sunset, but the lure of a potential day off had ensured the idea was almost unanimously vetoed in favour of holding it during the daytime, where people would be able to see all the action. It was good, he decided, to be able to see this task; the last one had been less than fascinating to spectate, which had made the organisers rather unpopular.

He wondered where Lucius had gotten to; his closest advisor had threatened to boycott the Tournament after Potter was allowed to compete despite being underage, without the same opportunity being extended to his Draco. Of course, as soon as he had revealed that the first task would be dragons the pureblood had quickly changed his stance.

The monster Maxime was chatting amicably with the Hogwarts gamekeeper. Dumbledore was talking with his allies from the ICW, and the Minister couldn't help a wave of relief that at least Grindelwald was not allowed to join the spectators. (Whoever had brought that up must have been out of his mind, but the idea was terrifying still.) Karkaroff was sitting next to a Hogwarts teacher, Cherry or what was her name. The former muggle torturer and the current muggle studies teacher had attracted all the media attention, they were the tabloids' favourite lovebirds during the Tournament.

 

.

His premonition was proven right. He had read reports that He Who Must Not Be Named was still alive and becoming active, but he had dismissed those warnings. However, even he could no-longer dismiss that when the dark wizard was levitated out of the maze, stunned and bound, by a very shaken looking Harry Potter. Diggory carried the cup (which was a bad enough result without the aforementioned dark lord) and was proclaimed winner whilst Potter was just happy to see You-Know-Who handed over to the authorities.

As the head of said authorities, Fudge was far less relieved when Bones and Kingsley cast their own ropes around the still unconscious, skeletal, slightly grey and snake-faced prisoner. He most certainly did not want to be responsible for holding him; the precedent for being a minister holding a dark wizard was not good.

“His snake got away,” Potter shared, still out of breath. “So did Pettigrew, I think. I'm not sure.”

Dumbledore arrived a moment before the Minister could have had his photo taken with the defeated and unconscious You Know Who, and by the time the headmaster was done congratulating both his champions (that was literally what he had the guts to call the young men) He Who Must Not Be Named started to stir awake. Despite the full boy bind hex and the conjured ropes, he was still horrifying and lethally dangerous, so the Minister moved to the victor's podium and congratulated Diggory. That was his task here, not bothering with dark wizards! Even if Potter's catch happened to be the most feared wizard in Britain's history.

“The Cup was a portkey,” Cedric quickly stated in the half second the Minister took a breath. “I don't know who made it but it took us to a graveyard somewhere...”

“The Ministry might be able to locate it, my Trace is still active and I used magic in a muggle place,” Potter added.

Shacklebolt nodded. “We will see to that. The portkey was set by May-Eye, he's in custody until we find out more.”

“Proudfoot and Tonks are on it,” added Savage. “Sirs, what are we going to do with Vol... with Potter's catch?”

“My bodyguard’s Kiss will sort him out,” Fudge happily replied.

“No, sir,” Potter argued. “It wouldn't work. He used dark magic to ensure his survival.”

“Darker than a dementor's kiss?” Dawlish joined them. “Impossible!”

“I’m afraid Mr Potter is right,” Dumbledore stepped closer. “Voldemort performed the most heinous deed magic is capable of, and I have reason to believe he did so more than once. In his unfathomably twisted state, a dementor tearing out what's left of his soul wouldn't incapacitate him.”

“But I'm sure Wohl will know what to do with him!” Potter's face lit up.

Wohl, Wohl, that sounded like a name the Minister of Magic had heard before.

“You mean Grindelwald,” Bones nodded. How could she stay this calm? He Who Must Not Be Named had just been left on the Ministry's figurative doorstep and the boy who'd done so was now claiming there was nothing more they could do!

Potter enthusiastically agreed with the Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement. “If anyone knows dark magic, it's him. But you'll need him to be here for that...”

That sudden gleam in Dumbledore's eyes.... What could that mean?

“Legally, that's doable,” Dawlish mused aloud. “Any member state of the ICW can petition custody of an international criminal, and if I remember right, the Austrians weren't happy to have him back two years ago.”

“They weren't,” Dumbledore confirmed.

“Please, minister,” Potter said. He appeared like he really wanted the Ministry to burden itself with yet another horrifying dark wizard. As if one wasn't enough.

The minister wished he had had Malfoy with him, but he stood terrifyingly alone. But if he'd do his Austrian colleague a favour; it would certainly help his case to reduce the trade levy between the countries... “That's not something I can decide on alone,” he eventually said.

“Indeed, sir,” Dawlish spoke again. “The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot will need to propose the transfer of the prisoner's custody. To the Supreme Mugwump himself.”

“What?” The Minister hoped it was Potter who asked the stupid question, not himself. Those were the same person!

“That’s the law,” Dawlish repeated with a very straight face.

“Perhaps the Headmaster can help speed up the bureaucratic process,” Shacklebolt suggested, throwing in the third position Dumbledore held.

.

Half an hour later Fudge found himself in dire need of either some extra-strong coffee, or (alternatively) a dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion. It was a taxing day! Both Snape and Karkaroff had officially identified Potter's prisoner as their abandoned former lord, and ‘Moody’ had turned out to have been Crouch's death eater son. The latter was a simple case, he'd been taken back to Azkaban, to the cell right next to Sirius Black's (that was now holding his father.) The real Moody was in St Mungo's, in a really bad shape if the healer’s reports were to be believed. His last apprentice, the disowned Black girl's daughter, was still at Hogwarts, although Fudge had no idea what she might have been doing there.

Finally, his most trusted (and best paying) advisor arrived to his office, with one of the junior assistants in tow. Fudge didn't need to waste more than a passing glance, it was obvious enough that it was a Weasley: an irritating presence, but at least, rarely in the way, and hard-working.

“Magical Austria agreed to the prisoner transfer on the condition that they won't have to take him back again,” Lucius announced. “It’s in our best interest to ensure the dark lord doesn't get out of sight like he did last time.” The elegant wizard rubbed his arm through the sleeve, as if he had a wound there.

“Certainly, but what can we do with Grindelwald?” the Minister sighed. “If Dumbledore tells me he would have him under control, the only thing I can tell for sure is, he won't! I don't need another catastrophe!”

“My son was rather fond of him during the year he taught at Hogwarts. If we free him, we'll have a rather potent ally in our debt.”

“Supposing he's the grateful type,” Fudge growled.

“I expect him to rid us of more than one annoyance,” Malfoy said with a mysterious smile.

Fudge inwardly swore. Why did Lucius always act like he expected his talking partner to read his mind? He was the Minister of Magic, not a legilimens! “If you say so...” he finally decided to say. “Have you ever met him? I don't want to start with getting on his bad side! He's a mass murderer.” Whom could he possibly place between himself and that dreaded man? He didn't want to lose an important wizard to this situation! It was out of control! Why did Potter have to bring back You Know Who if he can't be killed, anyway? Fudge had a year left in office, couldn’t this whole fiasco have waited until the next government?

Lucius looked infuriated, as if the minister had accused him of partaking in Grindelwald's killings before even he had been born. “What do you take me for, Cornelius?” he hissed.

“I’m clueless,” Fudge admitted. Only at his advisor's piercing glare towards the red-headed assistant boy did he realize he shouldn't have spoken up with a witness present. If admitting his perplexity got out, he'd lose support.

But the youngest working Weasley didn't seem to have realized what had just happened. Being looked at, he cheered up and spoke, “Well, he likes having things his way. Give him full attention, and don't ignore his advice. He’s always open to a question and he’d explain the most complicated transfiguration theories in ten minutes and you'll walk away like you've read an entire library. A mutinous spirit, like my twin brothers, but way more reasonable. Very serious about the rules he sets. The only time I've seen him angry was when a fifth-year used a tusk-growing spell she couldn't undo, he actually had five others cast the same spell on her and sent her to the Infirmary before fixing the teeth of the victim.” After a moment of thinking, Weasley added, “He likes a few minutes of privacy before lunch and after classes, usually some quiet place where he can gather his thoughts. And prefers cold orange juice instead of tea. Chilled drinks in general, really, I've seen him cast freezing charms on his morning coffee.”

Fudge stared at the boy, then blinked at Lucius only to find he was doing the same.

Weasley stared back at the two of them. “What? He was teaching at Hogwarts while I was a prefect. He's the reason I started learning German and picked up international wizarding law.”

“You speak German...?”

“Ich verstehe mehr als ich sagen kann. Ich lese viel aber wir hatten keinen andere Lehrer.”

Taking that as a yes, the Minister grinned, “All right, Weasley. You stick around him and make him feel home.”

Lucius added, “You must ensure his opinion of us remains positive. You’re in charge of his cooperation.”

“Yes, sirs, of course!” the young Weasley grinned ear to ear.

Once he was dismissed, Fudge turned back to the memos on his desk with a frown. That pile had somehow doubled in size when he hadn't been watching.

At least the new Weasley wouldn't be underfoot.

 


	14. Malfoy

_Lord Grindelwald,_

_I have taken this opportunity to write, hoping that it finds you in good health. I would have you know that it was I who supported your initial release from prison for the purpose of education at Hogwarts. As it now stands, I find myself in similar position and would have you return the favour, as one might say you are indebted to me. After all, had I not intervened it would be doubtful that Dumbledore could have secured the support of the Board, even before the consideration of the Minister for Magic._

_I pray that we can see eye to eye on this matter, and on future issues upon which we may share similar values. You might find the influence of my house of great assistance in achieving your ambitions._

_Needless to say, my assistance is conditional on your assistance in the current circumstance._

_Lord Malfoy_

_(seal of the Noble House of Malfoy.)_

The letter had at least been the source of a good laugh between the two elderly wizards. It had been delivered by a discrete owl in the early hours of the morning after the first round of interrogating the captured Voldemort. Grindelwald had been present, disguised as his own clumsy apprentice, much to the amusement of the British aurors, while the real Tonks had hurried back to her hospitalized tutor once again.

It was still only a day after Harry had defeated his nemesis at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, the following press conference and the associated acceptance (and subsequent elevation) of Grindelwald in society. The fake windows of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were glowing in an imitation of a cloudy sun-dawn, creating an illusion of everything starting from a blank page. When Albus entered, the light gilded his beard, as if it were the same shade as Gellert's hair had once been.

They didn't have much time to talk in private the day before, and there was so much to catch up with. Yet the two wizards had both been unable to resist when Grindelwald had found a pile of letters and a stack of parchment at breakfast.

“Joyful paperwork, I had to face it the first time too,” Albus commented, indicating the rest of the pile. “In my experience, that's always created in the aftermath of the defeat of a dark wizard.”

The Austrian grimly nodded. He almost hoped that his own defeat had caused more just because it would have served to old coot right for taking his wand and putting him in prison.

But that was the past; he had a feeling the message from the old Malfoy would help change the topic and move on. He wasn't in Nurmengard anymore.

He chucked the letter on top of the pile and watched as those white brows furrowed. Eventually the other wizard’s stoic expression cracked into a smile.

‘So he’s nervous.’ Albus finally said and Gellert snorted.

‘Of course he is. He’s practically begging.’

‘Blackmailing.’ Albus corrected and Gellert snorted. ‘Unless you don’t consider him a threat.’

Grindelwald didn't reply at first, he only shot a disdainful look. Dumbledore settled in his seat, still waiting for a verbal answer. Eventually, the dark wizard spoke, ‘Have I told you when he was afraid he’d be outduelled by his son, of all people?’

This again made Dumbledore chuckle. It was a well known fact among the faculty that Draco had shown little aptitude for duelling face to face, although like the rest of his family, he enjoyed situations when the opponent wasn't expected to fight back.

‘And what are you planning to do?’ He finally asked and Gellert tapped his rowan wand to his lips as he thought.

‘I’d make the best of his offer.’ He decided, and continued with sharing a tiny segment of his plans. Albus certainly would have caught a full lie, they knew each other too well. ‘Draco has the potential to be the one to finally lead the way in changing the pureblood philosophy but I advice you against making him vengeful. Forgiveness must be the way of the future if wizardkind is to survive.’ Dumbledore looked at him sharply.

‘You’re singing a very different tune.’

‘I always promoted our unity, I just didn’t know how to get it.’ He argued, conjuring a tea set and an empty plate. A moment later an elf popped in to fill the containers and he politely poured a cup for his old friend first – they were in what currently functioned as his own office, after all.

‘I see you’ve worked out how to manipulate the elves. Did this work in Hogwarts too?’

Gellert grinned across at him. His old friend would have expected nothing less. For a moment they were both silent as they drank the tea.

‘So how will you help Malfoy?’ The older wizard finally asked.

‘He will get a chance to prove his worth to the wizarding society.’

To Dumbledore, those words rang threateningly. Once again glad that he hadn't quit neither his position as the Chief Warlock despite Fudge irritating the life out of him, nor the job as Supreme Mugwump despite never having the patience for international affairs, he settled even more comfortably in the guest armchair, making clear that he wasn't going to leave. Grindelwald could play host as much as he wanted, he would not be able to throw the leader of both the Wizengamot and the ICW out of this room.

The Death Eater arrived less than ten minutes later. Gellert had been spelling miniature icebergs in the tea to kill some time, and  when the pot was almost frozen over, he picked up a parchment he had already been working on, often looking at Dumbledore, as if wondering how his written words would be taken. Other times he was writing fluently, as if he had thought out those words long before.

When he stepped into the room, Malfoy seemed just as exhausted as would be expected of the death eater Voldemort had named as the fallen keeper of the diary. He had dark shadows under his eyes but was as immaculately dressed as always. The exchange of pleasantries between the two darker wizards took a moment, but did much to set the atmosphere of the discussion. Albus and his ilk had never understood the subtleties of these old formalities when it came to negotiations. He preferred to either avoid contact at all, or just go in with his wand raised. But this time his presence was needed, and not only because the pair of extra ears made Lucius even more uncomfortable.

The fact that these two had apparently been having tea together turned the death eater's expectations upside down. And, since his audience was already disappointed that he wasn't going to challenge Dumbledore for a rematch, Grindelwald was acting exceedingly friendly towards his defeater, just to rile Malfoy further.

“Since you cannot deny having had the diary,” he began, tea cup in his wand hand, “I suggest you have wanted to ensure its destruction without making it obvious that it came from you. Clearly, you couldn't just put it in an envelope and owl it to the curse-breakers, the Ministry would have traced it back to you, and that's what you wanted to avoid.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Malfoy breathed.

“And you had to know it wouldn't survive in a school guarded by the one who defeated me,” Grindelwald continued, giving a small bow towards the headmaster mid-sentence. Albus squirmed in his seat, having recognized how fake that gesture of respect was.

“I had faith in Albus Dumbledore,” the youngest of the three managed.

The wizard in question didn't seem to appreciate the unwillingly given praise, although he could see his adversary's eyes glowing with suppressed laughter. There was a resemblance to the Weasley twins when their prank was already put in motion.

To someone who'd just met him for the first time in his life, however, the old Grindelwald appeared just as sincere and majestic as he had been in his prime, and Dumbledore couldn't help but note how well it suited him. The hauteur that came with this, maybe not so much, but without it, the man in the other armchair wouldn't have been Gellert Grindelwald.

“As the one who had eventually captured the diary, I can back up your claim,” the great dark wizard nodded in a calm voice. But before the death eater could have sighed in relief, he continued,  “Although, on the other hand, young Draco would doubtlessly benefit from a temporary lack of your influence.”

“What?”

“Gellert?!”

The two British wizards had lost their composure in the exact same moment. Grindelwald suppressed yet another satisfied smile.

“What do you want my son for? He's my heir, not a pawn of yours!”

“Would you have said this in the face of, what name did he make up for himself.... Flight-From-Death? We both know you wouldn't have.” A sip from his cold tea later, he continued, “He was a few drops of blood short from returning to a functional body. Harry's spell stood in his way, however.”

The death eater's shoulders slumped even more, but he wasn't willing to say anything positive about Harry Potter.

“A spell you taught Harry,” Dumbledore finally managed. “Cedric told me about a wall of blue flames. I might have heard about it before.” 

“Brother, I couldn’t leave him defenceless.”

During their talk (not missing the 'Brother' addressing) Lucius collected himself. “Draco holds you at a very high esteem. Half his walls are covered in quotes from you... How would he react if he heard you refused to back up his family?”

Dumbledore's thoughts darkened as he considered the possible outcomes. He was fully aware that a lie or two wouldn't have been far from his former friend. Because of the oaths he had to swear, 'Wohl' couldn't lie to a student, but there was a huge loophole: Gellert wasn't a teacher anymore.

But Grindelwald plainly mocked the question, in Draco's tone, no less. “Mein Sohn wird davon hören!” he stated in the perfect imitation of the young pureblood. “See, that's exactly why I believe he would benefit from your absence.”

Albus would have loved the show, how the most important person in his life wasn't letting Lucius Malfoy off the hook, but he had a foreboding feeling that Grindelwald wanted something from the pureblood that he wouldn't necessarily like. He loved the man, but was well aware of his talent for causing lasting harm.

Meanwhile, Lucius Malfoy didn't even seem to understand what was wrong with a pure family's keeping together. “I am one of the most influential wizards in Britain,” he stated. “The leader of the Board of Hogwarts Governors, practically, the boss of your... FRIEND!”

“Really,” Dumbledore nodded. “He once threatened me because I wouldn't remove the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard from the school library.”

“He suggested removing Beedle the Bard,” the dark wizard echoed, threateningly slowly, as if weighting the crime he had been told. Malfoy paled at the tone, not having a faint idea what might have triggered it.

“I have killed for MUCH less,” and all those present in the room were more than aware of the truth in that statement. That blue and that brown eye seemed to be piercing the relatively young wizard, separately, but two at the time. The death eater averted his gaze, instead staring at the chest of the dark wizard, at the pendant he'd been wearing once again. Lucius Malfoy had a feeling his petty letter from three years before could be the end of him, but he still didn't understand what Gindelwald could have possibly found offensive in upholding blood purity.

“At least Draco inherited his mother's intelligence,” the aged Austrian wizard noted, returning to the previous topic and subtly calling Malfoy the fool he'd made out of himself. Miserably, the death eater blinked at the headmaster – however, Dumbledore's participation in the negotiation over the boy's fate seemed to have been exhausted in an agreeing nod. What Malfoy couldn't see were old fingers tightening their grip on the Elder Wand, because Grindelwald's not looking at his former opponent was screaming of an imminent attack. Lucius Malfoy may have not noticed, but he was being used as a distraction.

“You can still be of some use, Mr Malfoy,” the former Professor Wohl finally stated. He must have decided that the British pureblood had been softened enough already. “While my current accomodation here with the aurors is temporary, I happen to know from a reliable source that my homeland is unwilling to take me back. As it stands, I'm without a permanent place to stay, while Hogwarts has been for long without acceptable History education.”

“History?” Dumbledore stared, wand falling back into the depths of his pocket. No wand would give an adequate reply to this move.

‘Wohl’ touched his tracker pendant. “I’m more than willing to accept the same restrictions as before. I will support your Ministry  with my knowledge and strength, but I want to be able to call Hogwarts castle and grounds my home. I swear I will attempt no escape and would willingly return within a day, should I, for any reason, leave.”

“As the headmaster of Hogwarts, I cannot...”

“As the leader of the Board, I accept and support your terms!” Malfoy hastily claimed. “In exchange of your help for both myself and for the Ministry, of course...”

“It appears like we've come to an agreement.”

“History?!” a shocked Dumbledore repeated.

“Yes, headmaster.” In aplomb, the freshly reinstated teacher handed over the sheet of parchment he'd been working on before Malfoy's arrival. “You can’t even tell me I’m late with the compendium, this time.”

Now it was Albus looking miserably at the death eater, as if begging for his veto. Hogwarts already had a History of Magic teacher, maybe not as captivating as Grindelwald, but certainly harmless! Wasn't a father inclined to priorize his son's unbiased education?

He refused to take a look at that parchment. He loved Gellert, yes, but he also loved his school. And how did Grindelwald intend to get to the castle, with his Abernathy Wohl alias exposed, the Fidelius spell well beyond repair? Knowing him, he'd perhaps just march in, head held high....

“A war criminal won't be pardoned,” Gellert now continued in a much softer voice. “I don't expect forgiveness from anybody. Much less, in a school that promotes the emancipation of muggleborn and half-breed students. But this has never been about what I deserve.” He straightened in the armchair, tall and energetic as he had always been. His voice rose again and echoed in the Ministry-assigned room. “The question is what I have to offer. I have already sworn to protect and educate the students to the best of my knowledge and abilities, but I will repeat that oath in front of the entire Board if that's required. I will swear unconditional obedience to the headmaster, the Heads of all four Houses, to the matron and the librarian. I agree to any security measure the aforementioned would ever deem necessary. Allow me to fill the job, let me teach History of Magic, and I swear I will never let Hogwarts down!”

Speechless, Dumbledore nodded in an informal acceptance of the oath, hope and dread mixing in his cerulean blue eyes.

Lucius Malfoy bowed reverently, and wished them both a relaxing summer before another school year would start.


	15. A shack near Little Hangleton

(Sequel scene)

 

With Dolores Umbridge around, both old wizards agreed not to press breaking the curse on the Defence teacher's position. Grindelwald had found her amusing, for the first few weeks, but by now he was growing irritated. At the same time Dumbledore worried that the criminal masterminding innocent pranks against her would lead to the dark wizard taking over the entire student body and to the use of much more sinister magic without anyone getting suspicious in time. Him flooding her room with a dozen little kittens half a minute into Dennis Creewey's detention was adorable, and the headmaster guessed he had some insider help from Minerva McGonagall. The framed decrees from the Ministry witch on the announcement wall had been reshaped to form the words 'Deutsche' ‘Sprache’ ‘um’ ‘sieben’ ‘Uhr', a brilliant display of Transfiguration skills and of the nonchalant defiance that always made Gellert so irresistible. Umbridge had banned the duelling club from any 'classroom, hall or corridor' in retaliation, and Grindelwald didn't even bother to clean up the mess his next club (complete with Charity Karkaroff and Filius Flitwick) had made in the Ministry-assigned teacher's quarters.

So, for different reasons but with the same amount of interest, they agreed to leave the curse in place and they instead decided to continue gathering Voldemort's soul together manually.

The diary had spilled, years before, when it hadn't yet been aware of its capture, that Riddle intended to use items from the founders of Hogwarts. Gryffindor's known belongings were safe, Albus was certain. Slytherin's item, a locket he'd been often portrayed wearing, had been found when Harry's godfather had (righteously) made Dumbledore clean out the Black townhouse during the Yule break as a compensation for his false statement that had led to an innocent man's incarceration without trial. Next was Ravenclaw's diadem;  Gellert had mentioned to Auror Tonks what they were looking for, and Albus had shared his suspicion that it might have been hidden when Voldemort had been trying to get the teacher position for the second time. Miss Tonks had beelined to the Hogwarts kitchen and had asked the elves, who had replied in unison that the Come-And-Go Room would be the first place they would comb – and indeed, one of the auror's tiny friends had presented the jewelry the following day.

“Do you think it's wise to let Harry tell Voldemort about our proceedings?” Albus mused after dinner on a Friday.

“I won't criticize him for giving dark wizards a chance to repent,” the other one replied. “And he has the right to try. Being more vulnerable than an average wizard is exactly what the nameless thing wanted to avoid, so there you have the motive. And through their connection, Mr Potter can help him get a grip on remorse. Which reminds me, I always forgot to ask....” Professor Wohl drank his orange juice, wiped his mouth, and leaned back on his chair, “did you really scream when you noticed I taught him Legilimency?”

“Who told you about that?”

“Several sources.” He fixed his two-coloured eyes on his headmaster, still waiting for the reply.

“I might have yelped a little,” Dumbledore admitted after a while.  “I was certain you had done something. So when he was back, I took a superficial look at him...”

“And he looked back into you? Albus, Legilimency always goes both ways, I thought you were informed. And please don't tell me I was being foul.”

Dumbledore smiled, memories running through his mind. When they've met the first time, Gellert had already been a foul wizard, expelled from Durmstrang for his uncontrolled darkness. But after all this time, he'd still loved him.

“So, are we going to search the Gaunt home tomorrow?” Grindelwald finally asked. “I’ll have to tell Madame Umbridge to allow Harry out to the Forest for basilisk venom.”

Albus laughed at the absurdity that Harry needed permission from the pink witch, then reminded himself that the woman’s faults were part of the reason Gellert was becoming overly popular again. He needed her gone before she would end up as demonstration subject for an exceedingly nasty curse.

.

 

They entered the shack together.

Both wizards had their wands at the ready, while they scanned the wreck of the structure with three blue and one dark eyes. The swirl of dark magic pointed them towards a hole under the floorboards.

It was Grindelwald who burnt the old sheet of wood out of the way. It was Dumbledore who first saw the old ring that Voldemort must have hidden in the shack.

It was Grindelwald who cast the blasting hex that threw Albus into the only remaining wall of the cottage before he would have reached the object, yelling that there were at least six different curses on it, most of which Albus shouldn't have been blind to.

“I'm not letting you have that!” Dumbledore growled, determinedly climbing out of the shattered wooden wall.

“Guess what, if you go ahead and touch it, I will indeed need the Stone to scream your reckless dunderhead off!” Gellert replied. “Sorry, that must be my overly long exposure to Snape. It doesn't change the fact there are curses that kill on contact.”

Both wizards approached the old ring, this time with more caution, suspiciously blinking at one another while doing so, their  wands in their sweating hands.

“I never thought I would live to see it.”

“Such a brilliant condensation of life-and-death magic.”

“I could finally talk with my sister.”

“Aham. And then you'd go and rob Harry of the Cloak for the second time. I won't let _that_ happen.”

“And I won't let you use it for dark magic; you have done enough damage for a lifetime.”

“Thank you for the unwanted criticism, Albus. I’ve just stopped you from the stupidest way of suicide.”

“Only because you're unable to stand idle, ever.”

“I’ve been idle for fifty years, thanks to you.”

The two looked up at each other, their minds clashing in Legilimency, neither of them willing to back down, their wand tips slowly turning towards the chest of the other.

“Albus....”

“We’re wiser than that.”

Lowering their wands again, they looked around in the awkward silence. Neither would have admitted how far they were still willing to go, just to keep the other from acquiring the black stone embedded in the accursed Gaunt family ring.

“Did you know...?”

“No. You didn't, either?”

Albus shook his head. “They were a distanced, reserved family, hardly in contact with the Wizarding World. They didn't even attend the Wizengamot this century.”

“Disdain only got them so far,” Gellert gestured at the shack's ruins. “So what? We cannot leave the Stone here.”

They circled around the torched woodboard's hole, kept away from the ugly piece of jewelry by the deadly curses Voldemort covered it in.

“I think we agree we won't let the other have it.”

“Then let somebody else keep it. You have a brother,” Grindelwald's mouth quirked into an evil smile.

“That’s not as bad an idea as you make it sound,” Dumbledore finally replied. “Oh, no, not Aberforth, but maybe one we could both trust until we figure out what to do about it.”

“Tantie Bathilda.”

Dumbledore glared at him with a start.

“She’s the only one I trust you still have some respect for,” Grindelwald explained.

With hardly more than a nod the two pointed their wands into the hole again, and started to meticulously remove the curses one after the other, before pouring an entire vial of basilisk venom on the horcrux ring.


	16. Departure

(Sequel scene, about a week after visiting the shack)

 

With so many witches and wizards begging for (or outright demanding) just one hour with their lost ones, the discovery of the Stone of Resurrection couldn't have been kept quiet. The aged, scarred mentor of Auror Tonks had been the one who proposed setting an official schedule and moving the Hallow to the safety of the British Ministry of Magic, where it could be guarded around the clock and still be used in the way Cadmus Perevell had once intended. Its two finders made sure Harry and his godfather were one of the first to have a word with their dead; it happened to be the first time young Potter talked to his parents in his entire life.

There was only one last task left about the Hallows, one about which the two most involved had reluctantly agreed upon. Albus had to part from his wand, so that he would not be in danger of being defeated (and killed) for it, and wouldn't be tempted to take away the Potters’ family cloak once again. Interrogating Sirius Black's old elf about how the locket had ended up in the nest behind the boiler gave the headmaster an idea, and Grindelwald insisted that he wanted to come along.

So here Dumbledore stood at the boathouse with a second wand in his pocket, while Gellert etched the last runes on the boat he had chosen. It was suitable for four children, it doubtlessly could transport two adults just as safely. As Albus looked closer, he noticed that those new carvings weren't protective enchantments, but their focus was on maintaining magic even in a wards-shielded area.

“From my own experience, it won't be easy for you,” the previous master of the Elder Wand noted, casting a featherweight charm on the boat he'd been working on. “I’m ready when you are.”

Albus grabbed his once-a-friend's (once-a-brother's) (once-an-enemy's) shoulder and apparated them to a wild seashore with waves roaring around the tiny rock they landed on.

“Magic won't let us enter directly,” he mused aloud.

Grindelwald shrugged; it wasn't like he didn't have a boat under his other arm. He forced the waves a little further, silencing the treacherous seawater for the few moments it took them to climb into the boat. There wasn't a reason for them to talk.

At the cave entrance, it was Albus who lifted out the boat and led the way to the concealed entrance, being the more agile member of the duo. At a specific stone that had wards linked to it, however, they both stopped. They had been prepared to face a lake full of inferi, but the tiny sacrifice needed to gain entry demanded much more from them.

The wizards spent a minute examining the disguised entrance, still not saying a word. From behind their strongest Occlumency shields, they could tell the other was thinking of the exact same form of magic, the exact same memory, the exact same object that so much remorse had once been tied to.

Then they moved in perfect sync, cutting their palms with their wands, not letting the other alone take the burden that should have been shared long before, that they had once agreed to share.

Touched by their blood, the wall of solid rock opened for them.

Weakened and strengthened at the same time by the torn-open memory, they proceeded to the lake the Black elf had talked about. There was a fragile-looking boat, hidden under the cave water, and at a whim Grindelwald tied it to the one they'd brought from Hogwarts. He preferred taking precautions.

Once in the water again, the larger boat moved with them on its own magic towards the distant cave-island, with the empty smaller one in tow. Albus seated himself in the front, eyeing the basin that stood in the island's middle. Gellert dipped his fingers in the dark water, examining the inferi slowly moving below. He wondered if 'Voldemort' ever realized what was the true reason death magic came to him so easily. They weren't going to tell him, only show him the empty ring one day, in case he’d need further encouragement to move the rest of his soul back to where the pieces belonged. Both hoped Harry would be skilled enough in Occlumency by that time; although it wouldn't be the first time the boy witnessed remorse over a series of murder.

The boat ran to the shore of the small island, and Albus dragged it all the way out, partly to ensure it doesn't move on without them, and partly because it granted him a few more minutes. But eventually, there was no more delaying the inevitable. He stepped to the stone basin.

He cast a last Lumos with the Elder Wand, pointing it at the foul-looking liquid under which an exact copy of Slytherin's locket now shimmered. Then he dropped the lit wand into the basin, watching as its bright ball's glow was dimmed under the potion. He felt lighter already. It wasn't even as bad as Gellert had made it seem; just the loss of a wand that would be gained and won over by another witch or wizard in the future. Perhaps Gellert had already seen who that person would be.

The darker wizard nodded in the solemn silence, then cut the knot and left the smaller boat halfway on the island's shore. Whoever would come here next would have to get to the basin by some other means of transportation. Albus wiped a last teardrop, then pulled out another wand from his pocket and settled back into his place on the Hogwarts boat's front bench. The silence was almost funereal, and they proceeded without any unnecessary motion, frequently looking back despite the  darkness hiding the entire island from their eyes. It was their past that had been left behind there.

The wizards could already see the outer sunshine by the time one of them finally spoke again.

“Albus, I shouldn't have abandoned you with all your responsibilities. I was thoughtless, and selfish, and my only hope is that the next generations might fare better.”

“I shouldn't have let you out of my sight, Gellert; our magic lies in being together. Strengthening, balancing. Helping each other especially when our differences come out.”

“I never knew you were a poet,” Grindelwald said, carving the triangular emblem on the wardstone that had required their blood sacrifice. “So, what next?”

“The curse on our position?” Albus suggested, placing the boat in the seawater again. Brine splashed onto his spectacles, and he dried them with his other wand. (Only wand.) “But not before I find someone suitable for it.”

“Don’t you intend to hire the werewolf again?”

“Is that your suggestion, Sir History Teacher?”

“I want to know if I'll be substituting my in-law on full moon schooldays,” Grindelwald replied easily. “Haven’t I told you? Tantie Bathilda talked with her squib son and muggle grandson through the Stone, and now it's all confirmed. With the family magic returning after four generations, now wipe that smug grin off your face, I'm related to some hopelessly benevolent Hufflepuffs, and Auror Tonks is my appointed heiress. I said, quit laughing at me!”


	17. Halloween spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Halloween Special chapter by Darth Krande - a bit rushed, so edits may happen after pumpkin season.

If Jordan learnt one thing in his NEWT year, it was that pranking Grindelwald was a real challenge. Him being a seer would have made it tricky in itself, but the professor also proved creative in his evasion of traps, and not once he 'accidentally' passed the enchanted-to-bite glass on to Snape (forcing the Weasley twins to openly rush to the teachers' table to prevent the oncoming catastrophe) or invited them to 'help carry all those parchment scrolls' after they'd charmed their homeworks to sting anybody who touched them. Once their trio had convinced the statues to wave their hands at random people passing them on the way to the History classroom, and all three of them got the one-finger salute after class. When they swapped the date numbers on the maps showing various conquests and armies marching left and right, their professor asked them to put those in chronological order – which took up most of the entire afternoon, with the miniature soldiers moving constantly to new and usually not age-accurate positions.

Lee's parents had, of course, reprimanded him several times in their letters and ordered him to quit before the feared dark wizard's patience would run out. He wrote back that he'd been sorted into Gryffindor for a reason, and besides, Wohl looked so disappointed when they paused their attempts for an entire week. He wasn't sure, but guessed that the teacher was reminded of the time when he had been alone. Jordan had an idea what a boring detention felt like, and 48 years of that wasn't what he'd have wished on anyone. He also knew for a fact that the twins shared this sympathy - that's what had prompted the idea of the Nurmengard visit. And didn't that one go fabulously? Except for Harry getting stuck in the fortress several months into the school year (which was Dumbledore's idea, anyway?)

“How about targeting somebody else and letting him be caught 'accidentally'?” Fred prompted.

“We could encircle the entire table in the slimy version of our swamp,” George mused.

“Considering how he turned the prototype into a miniature version of the Triwarton Battlefield, I'm not sure he wouldn't turn that into Diverdeen with the torching arrows being shot at us.”

“Nah, we already had the Siege of Diverdeen, I doubt he'd repeat himself.”

Lee nodded in agreement. The image of the island surrounded by a lake of horrid potions was still vivid in their minds.

“How about we make full replica? A portable Diverdeen?”

“Well, it's on the list of the winter assignment options.”

“He never said we have to WRITE our assignments, did he?”

And so it happened that the three boys had agreed on their homework (due after the Christmas break) sooner than they'd have come up with a viable way to prank the one who had assigned it.

But life didn't stop and soon it was Halloween's morning, mere hours before the evening feast, and all they had were a fistful of spiders. The twins' youngest brother had been fidgety ever since the many-legged beasts had started migrating into the castle, and even Hagrid could only tell that something in the forest was hunting them. Gossip had it, it was a basilisk, left behind by Salazar Slytherin himself.

Lee took the seat closest to the teachers' table, the twins close behind him. They had already dropped a pocketful of the spiders near the Slytherin table, but the animals had hurried away from anything resembling a snake in panic. One of the newest batch, one whom Lee supposed to be a very young female acromantula, had however made herself at home in one of the empty glasses here.

People stared to seep in. Some of them screamed a little, others sprang up from their seats after realizing they had unexpected company, the older of the Creewey brother was snapping photographs and documenting the early Halloween chaos for the next generations. Lee wondered how he would react if he ever found a picture of his parents running at the sight of a fist-sized arthropode. ‘Priceless’ was the first word that came to his mind.

As it was usual, Wohl arrived early and freshly bathed. With his trademark nonchalance he grabbed the glass with the baby acromantula in it, and placed it in the middle of the table, by Headmaster Dumbledore's seat. Then he claimed the chair right next to his old adversary's.

The other old wizard arrived in short time, in a robe exceedingly eye-scorching even when compared to his usual wear. It was ochre and orange coloured, resembling a pumpkin more than a renowned Supreme Mugwump. As he took seat, however, the robe faded to an almost dull blueish grey, but at the same time, the pumpkin colour reappeared on Grindelwald's (until now) soft brown suit. The other wizard frowned with his two-coloured eyes, and made a swiping motion with his wand hand, transferring the intense orange shade to the tablecloth.

The three boys watched in open awe. Swipe-able miscolouration had a lot of potential uses, and the two old men giggled at each other's anthics like they hadn't been sworn enemies for the most of this century.

Dumbledore caringly removed the acromantula from his glass and placed it on the pumpkin-ochre tablewear. She looked up at him, clearly insulted, then marched to another glass – only to be forced to give up its comfort in a few minutes, when Umbridge dropped said glass and it shattered to a million pieces. The shards were quickly vanished, and the acromantula found herself being glared at by the most hated teacher of the school.

She tried to take cover as Umbridge grabbed her knife in her fist, ready to stab the intruder. However, when the knife's peak reached the arthropode, there was a bright flash, and instead of a dead spider, there remained one alive and several inches larger. Umbridge's knife hit the tiny beast again, but with the same success. Two more attempts at her life later, the beast was the size of a juice jar and still unharmed, only, clearly agitated.

The headmaster whispered something to the History teacher, who nodded and pushed his chair back as if to get out of Dumbledore's line of fire. When the least popular teacher had attempted to smash the acromantula with the plate, both turned the tablecloth's pumpkin shade of orange – the spider and the plate alike. Then the colour started to spread up Umbridge's cardigan as well.

Grindelwald thought he could make more out of this situation, or maybe he didn't want that rare shade of pink go to waste, and soon the jar-sized, pumpkin coloured acromantula was wearing a patch of pink on her body. Followed by a satisfied grin from the Headmaster, she also had her body hair rearranged into a shape quite resembling her attacker's hairstyle.

“You know, in her place I would also be excessly annoyed.”

“Yes. Poor spider.”

“Yepp.”

Professor McGonagall might have been of the same opinion, because (by the form the orange tablecloth moved, and from his reaction) she tried scoring a warning kick on the Headmaster's ankle.

While the Defence Against Dark Arts teacher was still trying to remove the severely miscoloured and slightly transfigured creature from her side of the table, Professor Flitwick audibly whispered, “May I join in?” and soon the spider not only had a tiny (but exact in every detail) replica of Umbridge's wand in one furry leg, but that fake wand was giving pink and pumpkin-shade small puffs at her every reaction.

By the time the acromantula was not only a ridiculously accurate (but suddenly, much more popular) imitation of Umbridge but also fighting her back with tiny framed decrees, the entire school was in awe. Except for one student.

One student, whose reactions Grindelwald must have been watching for some time now, clearly expecting him to have spoken up and rescued the animal much sooner. But just as he stood up to interfere, the History teacher levitated the spider from the teachers' table to his arm's reach, trusting the boy to retransfigure her into her original shape. There was a disappointed murmur from all five tables, but Wohl just shrugged and Headmaster Dumbledore invited everybody to continue their breakfast.

“Wise words,” the other old mischief-maker agreed.

“Remind me to NEVER mess with them!” Fred whispered weakly.

Lee wholeheartedly agreed with him.

 

.

Next morning the Hogwarts inhabitants woke to a terrified scream. Gryffindors were at an advantage, due to their dormitories being in one of the highest towers, and soon they all were craning their necks towards the lake's direction. There, dressed in nothing but swimming pants and an (obviously, empty) wand holster, an old man was running for his life.

Chasing him, and quickly gaining on its prey, was a blue Ford Anglia.

Colin Creewey took several pictures.


End file.
